After a quick shower, I tied back my hair and pulled on some jeans, my ancient Jack Purcells, and a comfy sweater. I called McKay’s Feed and Tack. Intelligently, Duncan had gone home for the night, so I dialed his cell phone.
“Hello?” Willie Nelson played in the background.
“Duncan. It’s Maggie Blackthorne. Sorry to bother you at home.”
He lowered the volume on Willie. “No big deal. I was just making dinner.”
“This really could’ve waited, but I have shots of the barcodes from the cattle prods. I’ll text those to you so you can scan them through your inventory system tomorrow.”
“No fence cutters or salt licks yet?”
“Nah.”
“I’ll check out those barcodes first thing in the morning and let you know.”
“Talk to you then.”
“Hey, just had a thought. I owe you a cup of coffee, but why don’t you join me for dinner instead? We can catch up, whatever. Unless it’s inappropriate or something?”
I never considered a meal with a citizen a problem, but I probably should’ve fibbed and told him I’d already eaten. Or that tomorrow would be another long day, and I’d have to take a rain check. I didn’t, though.
“Sure, I guess. Sounds terrific.”
Christ. Why had I said that last bit? Nothing more pathetic than squeaking like a fifteen-year-old accepting an invitation to her first date. Except maybe sounding like a lonely near-forty-year-old, two-time divorcée looking for a little nookie.
Since our little village had been spared the brunt of the mountain blizzard, I hopped in the Jetta I’d purchased more than a decade ago. I drove south through a narrow basalt gorge where Highway 395 ran parallel to the winding path of Canyon Creek, swollen now with snowmelt.
Duncan lived in a not-so-promising development project called Three Flags Landing. The whole affair comprised a tiny cul-de-sac with three modest houses plunked down on the edge of desolation. It might easily have been named Tumbleweed Estates or Juniper Junction. Except for the fact the development sat just off of 395, also known in this part of the state as Three Flags Highway, running as it did through Washington, Oregon, and California.
Duncan’s house was the one occupied home on the cul-de-sac and the smallest of the three structures. In the beam of my headlights, I made out the plain two-story cottage, its dark green siding and white trim. A row of roses had been planted on one side of his nice little front porch. He’d even put in grass, but if it’d been up to me, the house would have faced east toward Strawberry Mountain, not smack into the other two homes.
He opened his door, oven mitt in hand, and waved me in, along with the frigid night air. It was a tidy, plain space, and I could see he shared my notion that Strawberry Mountain should be the focal point. Barely furnished, except for a dramatic wooden table set for two, the open great room was oriented toward the east-facing garden doors at the back of the house.
“Bet that’s a nice view in daylight,” I said.
“The prettiest mountain around.”
“Dinner smells delicious.”
“Baked trout with dill sauce.”
God, what planet did this bull rider hail from? The way I remembered it, folks just rolled the damn fish in some flour and fried it up. But if Morgan had been here, he would have reminded me to be more positive in my thinking. He’d be right, of course. Duncan could’ve been shit-faced at the Rifleman Club, drinking Sonny Brook, and snacking on pickled eggs.
He lifted a bottle of wine from the counter. “Would you like a glass?”
“No, thanks, I’ll pass for now.” Willie Nelson still played in the background. “Is that his Teatro album?”
“Yeah. Nothing corny about that music, is there.”
He invited me to take a seat at the table. I sat in one of the mission-style chairs, a furniture design I recognized from years of antique shopping in the Willamette Valley with Morgan.
“Nice place.”
“Thanks. I like being out here. I’m close enough to the feed store, close enough to my folks’ place in Silvies Valley, but not too close to either.” He stood at the marble counter in the cooking area tossing salad in a myrtle wood bowl. He was graceful for a tall man, but that great shag of hair all but covered his lovely eyes.
I poured myself some ice water from a cut glass pitcher. “Have you gotten used to living in eastern Oregon again after being gone for so long?”
“Most of the time. I definitely don’t miss Texas, but I’d give an eyeball for good barbecue.” He added a paprika garnish to the trout. “And you? You like being back in Grant County?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ve got no family here to speak of, and my oldest friend lives in Portland. Which might as well be Texas.”
He stopped and tasted his wine, set the goblet back on the counter. “I was surprised when I heard you’d become a cop.”
“I was surprised when I heard you’d stopped riding bulls.”
“Well, that was bound to come to an end. I got beat up bad a couple of times.”
Duncan placed the myrtle wood bowl and a ceramic casserole dish on the table and took his seat. He served the trout along with the chopped kale and hazelnut salad, laying the food out prettily on each plate.
He arranged a napkin on his lap and watched me take my first bite. “How is it?”
“Good. Really good.”
The fish was tasty, but lately I’d had little to compare it to, save my frozen entrées and the cheeseburger I’d ordered the other night at the Blue Mountain Lounge. For sure, his meal could pass for fancy dining. I was mindful not to wolf it down and to hold my utensils the way Mrs. Simmons taught us during her 4-H class on the domestic arts.
“The dill sauce is a nice touch,” I said.
“Glad you like it. Are you ready for some wine now?”
“Sure, I’ll try a glass.”
Duncan poured another goblet half full of wine tinged the color of dry grass, so cold it made the glass sweat. I sipped and winced at the fermented mix of sweet and tart.
He laughed and pushed a plate of bread my way. “Here. Cleanse your palate, then try another taste.”
I did as he suggested, knowing full well nothing would ever persuade me the wine bottle’s claim of clean, crisp, Granny Smith character was remotely accurate.
He smiled to himself and mixed some of the dill sauce with the kale. Pausing before tasting the green-on-green concoction, he peered across the table. “You’ve got a tougher job than I imagined.”
“Most of the time all I do is scout around for speeding drivers, drunks, and scofflaws.”
“But murder is something else altogether.”
Master of the obvious, this man. Possibly an old flirt as well.
“It’s unusual, I’d agree.” I nibbled on the salad, picking out the hazelnuts on the sly.
“I suppose it’s too early to know what happened out there.”
“I really can’t talk about the investigation.” Nor did I want to.
We finished eating our fish and salad. A different album, this time Eva Cassidy, filled in the quiet.
“I do need to tell you something, Maggie,” he said and quaffed more wine. “I figured out my nephew, Rain, pilfered the jerky from my storeroom.”
I guess that explained the dinner invitation.
“How about the other items?”
Duncan shook his head. “He was adamant he didn’t.”
“You need to establish whether those cattle prods are yours ASAP. Otherwise, I’ve got to question him about it.”
“I thought that might be the case.”
I poured myself some more water. The cut glass surface of the pitcher was an elegance I could get used to. “Why didn’t you take all of this to local law enforcement in the first place?”
“You’re the only real police we have around here. Everyone knows that.”
I considered defending the sheriff’s office and town police, but I figured Duncan suspected they would’ve
hauled his nephew off to MacLaren Youth Facility before bothering to interview him about stealing from his uncle’s store. I was also sure he probably had that just about right.
We finished our supper and talked about the weather, our similar taste in music, and hiking Strawberry Mountain next summer. We railed about our small-town high school years and the fact we’d each wanted to leave the place for good.
“I swore I’d never move back,” he said.
“God, me too.” Suppressing a yawn, I checked my watch. “Thanks for dinner, Duncan. It was tasty, more than tasty. But I should go home.”
I stood and carried our plates to the sink.
“Maggie. I’d like it if you stayed awhile longer.”
I was a fucking fool, that’s all there was to it. I sat back down and handed him my mostly full wine goblet. “Could I get a gin and tonic? I can’t stand this crap.”
He laughed again. “What’s your preference?”
“Tanqueray, if you’ve got it.” Otherwise, brand didn’t matter much. Gin was always my friend. Also my enemy.
“Ah. You like your gin London and dry.”
Sure, whatever.
He rose, poured my drink over ice, and placed it on the table. “Drink slow. I wouldn’t want you to get pulled over on your way home.”
“How about a coffee chaser, too,” I said.
He returned to the kitchen and turned on the one-cup Keurig next to the sink. Meanwhile, I texted him the photos of the barcode labels.
Duncan pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Thanks. I’ll check these out first thing.”
He placed a coaster and the mug of coffee beside my gin drink, took his seat, and poured himself more wine.
“There’s something I need to warn you about,” he said.
“Having to do with?”
“Dorie Phillips.”
“Dorie? She was my mother’s best friend, and she’s my landlord.”
“You live at the Castle Thrift Store?”
“In the apartment on the second floor.”
“I had no idea.”
“You don’t follow the county breaking news alerts, I take it.”
“No. That’s how I keep my sanity.” His deep voice had a lilt I hadn’t noticed earlier. Probably the wine.
“So what’s the warning about Dorie?”
“She was in the store last week. Told me you and I should get together.”
I hadn’t realized just how sly that ol’ gal could be. Suggesting I think about a couple of dipshit romantic prospects but not mentioning Duncan.
He tipped his wine goblet toward my gin and tonic, and we clinked glasses. “Anything’s possible.”
“Not until I know your politics,” I said.
“You care about that?”
“Damned straight I care.”
“Conservative liberal. Does that work?”
“We’ll see.”
“You’re tough.”
“No, picky. I’ve been married and divorced twice.”
“Twice, huh?”
“Yep. And some lessons have been learned.”
“I hear you.”
“I was happy the first time, until he wasn’t. I took up with an ass the second time.”
“And now here you are, sitting with me.”
“But I really should be going.”
He placed his goblet on the table. “I was in a grouchy mood when you first dropped by the Feed and Tack this morning. Then this afternoon when it was you who pulled over and offered me a ride, that made my heart jump.”
“So much so you fell fast asleep, I noticed.”
He smiled. I liked his smile, I realized.
“You’re a lovely woman, Maggie.”
Raw heat moved from my chest to my face. My entire body was flush, sweltering. Absentmindedly, I lifted a cube of ice and placed it on my florid neck. “I think I’ve had enough gin.”
He brought an enormous hand to my cheek. “You do feel a little warm.”
Slowly, his other hand moved to my opposite cheek. Then he took my hands, stood, and helped me up from my chair. We kissed.
“I have to say, you’re the only woman in the county I’d want to kiss. Or have dinner with. And it’s not just because I get a little lonely sometimes.”
“Not to mention a little horny.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
I was certain it wasn’t a bad thing at all, but desire had played tricks on me before. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Duncan. What I’ve done, what I’ve been through.”
Duncan pulled me closer. “Here’s what I do know. You’re smart. Pretty. A good cop.”
I brought my lips to his.
“And a good kisser,” he said.
“And profane. Believe me.”
“I traveled the rodeo circuit, remember?”
“I put all that cowboy shit talk to shame.”
We kissed again and explored one another, carefully at first, then in a rush of roaming hands, his under my sweater, mine unbuttoning his jeans.
“Come upstairs with me,” he said.
“Only if there’s a bed up there.”
“You’re all about the comedy, aren’t you?”
I pressed my body against his. “Not always.”
Later, when Duncan walked me out to the Jetta, we stood in a long embrace, ignoring the cold, harsh dust-up of wind.
“Thanks again for dinner,” I said.
“You’re welcome to spend the night, you know.”
I kissed him and climbed inside the car. While the Jetta warmed, I watched him amble back to his porch and close the front door. I regarded the small stand of Ponderosa at the edge of Three Flags Landing, the dark backdrop of Strawberry Mountain, and his little house.
“What the hell just happened?” I whispered beneath the loud flutter of engine noise.
Near midnight, I rooted around for my journal. I found it layered with a scrim of winter dust on a shelf next to the rocker, carried it to my bed, and opened to the most recent entry. February 4th, nearly three weeks ago: “Monday night. New moon, new mantra: I don’t do desperate anymore.”
“Remember that, Blackthorne,” I said and nudged Louie from my side of our bed and back to his pillow at my feet.
8
Morning, February 24
Wind carried the toll and echo of church bells. Also the memory of Alligator Paulus, age sixteen. The two of us had lived for our Sunday morning ventures dabbling in religion. LDS, Nazarene, Assembly of God, First Baptist, St. Elizabeth of Hungary, Presbyterian, Episcopal, First Christian, and Methodist, we frequented whatever congregation laid hold of our fickle interests. We joined youth groups and went to Bible camps for God instruction, also to practice French kissing, making out, and feeling up. Church boys didn’t care if we were smart, homely, or stupid, so long as we were willing to sneak from our cabin on dark summer nights and meet in the woods for a petting fest.
Alligator was a true friend. Beautiful, wild girl whose actual name was Alyssa, shortened to Ali, then lengthened to Alligator somewhere along the way. She died when her lawyer uncle crashed his piper Cherokee on Mt. Lassen. I got the news while away at college, and for a long stretch, her dying wrecked me. Wrecked me as much as Zoey’s suicide or Tate’s drunken fadeout. Like I’d plunged down on that ancient volcano with her, stranded and searching for a trail off the mountain, one that didn’t double-back on itself.
I caught the deep chime of Church of the Nazarene’s last peal of the morning. Dorie had ceased inviting me to join her there on Sundays. Although, I’d almost taken her up on it a couple of times just for the panorama outside the arched windows: long tabletop buttes and the John Day River slicing through a silver plain of alfalfa, cottonwood, and poplar. Not Duncan McKay’s view of Strawberry Mountain, but a beautiful sight just the same.
I showered and put on a clean uniform. My breasts had been especially ripe and tender under the hot spray of water, a reminder of last night’s surprise ending.
A distraction I struggled to set aside. I was already working above my pay grade, and I knew I needed to find the killer if I wanted to keep the demons of self-doubt at bay. Preoccupation with an old grief and a new lover just had to wait.
Hollis and I planned to meet for breakfast, a routine we’d put on hold since the birth of his baby. First, though, I wanted to check in on Lynn Nodine. Dorie had spent the last few nights there, probably making a good-hearted pest of herself, if I knew both my landlord and Mrs. Nodine as well as I thought. But today Dorie would be at Sunday services, a habit I suspected Lynn had never adopted. All the other church ladies would be observing too, so I’d be free to speak to Lynn alone.
Her vintage orange VW bus was parked in front of her house. Farley Nodine was bent over the rear engine compartment, an oil rag over his shoulder and a toolbox on the ground beside him.
“Morning, Farley. How’re you doing?”
He didn’t bother looking up from his mechanic work. “’Bout like you’d expect, I guess.”
“How’s Lynn?”
“Same. ’Bout like you’d expect.”
“She inside?”
“Yep. And glad to be rid of all them women.”
Leaving Farley to his spark plugs or whatever, I tapped on Lynn’s door.
She rose from where she sat in the front room and opened it. “Come in, Margaret. I’ve kind of been expecting you.”
Inside, I was greeted by the dense, pleasant aroma of baked goods and coffee. Lynn offered some of both.
“No, thank you,” I said as we sat. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m pretty numb.” Which registered in the tone of her flat, hoarse voice. “After everything I’ve been through with those two, I should’ve figured it would end this way. But I wouldn’t in a million years have thought they’d get themselves shot to death.”
Dead Point (Maggie Blackthorne Book 1) Page 10
