“Sexy outfit,” he said.
“Next time I’ll keep my uniform on and break out the handcuffs.”
“I’m serious. You look sexy. And I’m glad to hear there’ll be a next time.”
“On one condition.” I gathered a hank of his unshorn hair between two fingers. “Let me trim this mess.”
His full laugh surprised me. “God, you’re fun. I can’t understand why one guy would let you get away, let alone two.”
“Let’s just say neither had a good sense of humor.” Which wasn’t true in Morgan’s case, but I was for damn sure not going to stand half naked in my kitchen and explain the motivations of my ex-husbands to the man who had singlehandedly recharged my batteries. And I didn’t mean the triple As loaded in my vibrator.
“Tell you what. I’ll let you cut my hair if you let me take a broom and dustpan to your apartment.”
“Whoa. That’s a deal. Shake on it?” I peered into his green eyes and extended my hand.
He nodded toward Louie’s cat pillow I’d shifted from the end of my bed to the floor. “You have a pet?”
“An old tabby cat. He’s under the weather, so I took him to see Jen Wilson this evening. She kept him for the night.”
“This county would be in bad shape without Jen.”
“Especially the pets and livestock.”
“Come here.” He coaxed me gently onto his lap. “Sit with me for a few minutes. Then I have to take off, let you sleep. Tomorrow—today rather—could be a tough one.”
He meant the Nodines’ funeral and its aftermath.
“Can I ask you something personal?” Duncan asked.
“Depends.”
“The scar on your shoulder, how’d you come by that?”
“It’s a long story.”
“After you became a cop?”
“Yes. But it had nothing to do with being a cop, okay?”
“Okay. Sorry to pry. Let’s get you tucked in and I’ll be on my way.”
“I’d rather stay right where we are for another minute,” I whispered.
“You got it.”
Mark Taylor’s spotlessly clean Ford F-150 pickup was parked next to our police station when I pulled up around eight a.m. Taylor was a generally uncomplicated guy who took his job as a fish and wildlife officer with the Oregon State Police very seriously, and he saw his role as husband and father as the culmination of the good life.
He was the kind of fellow I probably should have married. But no. Sincerity and naiveté were suspicious qualities to my mind, and Taylor had both to the bone. A good cop, though.
“Welcome back, Mark. How was Disneyland?”
“Great. We were smart to go before spring vacation. No long lines. The three-day pass is pretty cheap. And we got a heck of a deal at the Disneyland Hotel.” He held up a chubby digit with each example of just how smart they’d been.
“I’m glad you had a good time.”
“You should plan a trip there your next vacation. It’s more fun for adults, really. The kids got bored, wanted to hang out at the hotel pool all day. Ellie and I, though, we couldn’t get enough of Splash Mountain. The bomb.”
Did anyone else use that dated expression these days?
“Hollis and Lillian’s little boy was born while you were away,” I said, hoping to shift the conversation to a topic about which I gave a care.
“Also, we drove down to Seal Beach, south of Anaheim. It’s the damnedest thing. The sand has to be hauled in from the desert.”
Jesus Christ, the play-by-play was already tedious. “Did you hear what I said? Hollis and Lil had their kid.”
“Heard that, yeah.” He indicated a small, gift-wrapped package on his desk. “Brought back some baby Mickey ears for the little tyke.”
I opened my computer. “Have you heard about the murders?”
“The Nodine twins, right? I saw your display back there by the break table.”
“That’s our murder board. Turns out we’re going to need another one. We found Guy Trudeau’s body yesterday. Someone tried to make it look like he’d hung himself, but the medical examiner pronounced it a homicide.”
“Is that so, Sarge?” Hollis had arrived.
“Morning, Hollis. Congratulations,” Taylor said.
“Thanks, Mark. Glad you’re back. We could really use your help around here.” He settled in at his desk. “So, Dr. Gattis determined Trudeau’s death was no suicide?”
“Yep. She still needs to run a few tests, I guess.”
Taylor placed a small package on Holly’s desk. “Go ahead. Open it. Ellie and I couldn’t resist. It’s for…What’s your baby’s name?”
“Henry. We’re calling him Hank, though.” He picked up the package. “I think I’ll take it home so Lil and I can open it together.”
“Nah. Open it now. I want to see the look on your face.”
Taylor reminded me of a good-hearted kid, overly eager to please but never quite getting there.
“Actually, I think it’s time we all got to work. I have a homicide report to finish before the funeral,” I said.
“Funeral? Is that why you’re all dressed up?” Taylor asked, referring to my mourning outfit, the one suit I had ever owned. Black, wool, and out of fashion.
“The Nodine brothers’ service is this morning.”
“Speaking of the Nodines,” Taylor said. “I saw you’d written something about Kat McKay dating one of them. Dan, maybe?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I cited her about a month ago up Murderers Creek. She was doing target practice inside the state wildlife area. Blasting away with a nine-millimeter handgun. The same kind you’ve got listed on your murder board.”
“A Kel-Tec PF-9?”
He nodded. “She had that kid of hers along too.”
“Rain.”
“Right. Right as rain.” Taylor chuckled.
Hollis placed the baby gift on his desk and made his way to the murder board. He noted the Kel-Tec 9 and Murderers Creek beside Kat McKay’s name, added “Rain” in parentheses.
Taylor scrolled through email and hummed “It’s a Small World After All,” prompting me to call Jen Wilson.
“Maggie,” she answered cheerfully. “Louie has perked up nicely, but I think I’d like to keep him around for the day. Will that work for you?”
That news perked me up as well, despite Taylor’s incessant humming in the background. “Whatever you advise here, Jen.”
“All right. I’ll see you this evening. We close at five, but just give me a heads-up if you’re going to be later than that.”
“Will do.”
I finally set to work on the Trudeau homicide report. Although I managed to describe the details of the old man hanging dead in his kitchen, by the time I’d fully related our discovery of the body and the ensuing search of his property, I felt like I was on a sickening fast track to becoming an expert at recounting murder scenes.
Al Bach opened the station door as I stood at the printer waiting for it to spit out my pages. I had already set him up at the extra desk, empty since the second fish and wildlife position was cut from our budget.
“This will work fine, Sergeant. I brought my laptop along,” he said, placing it on his temporary desk.
After describing the layout of our office and directing him to the supply closet, I introduced Bach to Taylor, who thereafter refrained from regaling us with Disney songs and stories of his SoCal adventure. OSP brass often prompted Taylor’s timidity.
To ease his discomfort, I asked him to listen to the recorded tip line call reporting the Nodines poaching deer out in Logan Valley.
“See if you recognize the guy’s voice. Hollis and I didn’t, but you might. Also, would you pull up the Kat McKay citation you mentioned?”
“I’ll get on that right now,” Taylor said.
Bach followed me to our back alcove and spent a few minutes studying the murder board. “Pretty compelling, Maggie.”
“A lot of data, though.�
�
“Better that than too little, I promise you. After the funeral, let’s look at some of the threads you’ve got listed and see if anything ties together.”
“I like that idea.” I was relieved he was on my side again. Yesterday’s conversation had gone better than I’d expected, and his disdain for J.T. Lake turned out to be a side benefit.
Juniper Memorial Chapel had filled with family members, locals in mourning, and likely some onlookers hoping for a view of the murdered men. But Lynn and Farley had wisely gone for a closed-casket affair.
On the church organ at the front of the sanctuary, Dorie played “All the Way My Savior Leads Me” while the last of the funeral-goers filed in and sat in the pews. I stood in the back next to Sam Damon, who closed the doors at precisely 11:05 a.m. Reverend Bill took the podium and led us in prayer. Afterward, Brian Clancy, a former classmate of mine and of Dan and Joseph, read the eulogy. Then Alice and Dave Hanover sang “The Old Rugged Cross,” mostly hitting the harmonies.
Al had reminded me to note who attended and who didn’t. Dorie, all of the other church ladies, and any husbands were present, of course, along with every relative still living in the John Day Valley and their cousin Jess Bennett from Burns. Ariel Pritchett sobbed from the front row seated next to Whitey Kern and his girl Olive. But I didn’t know what to make of Cecil Burney. He’d cleaned himself up for the occasion, despite his supposed hatred of the Nodine brothers. Conversely, Kat McKay was conspicuously absent.
After the funeral service, most of us climbed in our vehicles and followed Sam’s hearse, now loaded with the two caskets, three miles up 395, turned left at East Road, and drove to the cemetery grounds. The fast breeze had faded to a flutter, and we stood in warm sunlight before the twin graves, a view of Strawberry Mountain Wilderness directly southeast and the broad river valley to the north and west.
Graveyard rites turned out to be an abridged version of the observance we had attended earlier, with a final send-off prayer from Reverend Bill. Alice and Dave Hanover sang a song Lynn had requested, Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven,” which echoed from the hilltop cemetery, across the valley, and trailed the course of the river. Finally, a hymn I knew and understood.
After the service, I made my way across the wet blades of grass to hug Lynn and say goodbye. “Afraid I have to pass on lunch at the Grange hall.”
“Thank you for coming, Maggie. Wish I could take a pass on lunch. I’ll be glad when all the fussing comes to an end.”
“I know, Lynn.” I placed a hand on her shoulder. “Everybody means well.”
“Oh, I get that. It’s just not my cup of tea.”
I smiled and brushed aside a strand of my hair.
“You’ll let me know when you find out who did this,” she said.
“Of course. As soon as I can.”
I crossed the cemetery grounds toward my Tahoe parked in the line of vehicles. My mother and father were buried a few rows over, not side-by-side, but near one another. They weren’t divorced when Zoey drove herself headlong into the river, but their marriage was long over, and Tate had been living alone in his trailer house for years.
I was fifteen when Zoey committed suicide, and I found Tate’s emaciated body shortly before my eighteenth birthday. I hadn’t visited their gravesites since the funerals, and I didn’t plan to begin practicing that custom anytime soon.
11
Afternoon, February 25
The service and burial rites for Dan and Joseph had left me rheumy. I wanted to clear my head, take a drive east past Prairie City to the wayside overlooking the John Day Valley. The view was stunning from there—river and canyons, peaks and desert, fossil scarp, and a vast range of scrub and forest, all in one expansive vista. It could almost make a heathen believe in the possibility of a higher power. Yet it was the sea-green and vermilion earth and the pewter-blue swath of sky that embodied the divine and sacred in my eyes. No obligatory text or enigmatic ritual required.
These days, though, a modernist replica of Conestoga wagons, symbolizing the Oregon Trail, tainted the wayside. Homage to brave souls crossing into unknown territory, it was also a reminder of slaughter and bondage: Lillian’s people, Holly’s people, and all of those who found themselves in the path of white ignorance and so-called manifest destiny.
This was all too pensive a reflection to dwell on, especially in light of the post-funeral scene now playing out several yards from the twins’ freshly dug graves. Farley Nodine and Cecil Burney swaggered and circled one another, heading for a bust-up.
“Hey!” I shouted as Farley gave Cecil a hard shove.
My dress boots had already collected mud on their spikey heels and were otherwise not built for peace officer duties, making for a difficult and slightly treacherous trot across the wet grass back to the gravesites. By the time I caught up with the fracas, Farley had pinned Cecil on the ground and had his hands around the old drunk’s neck.
I yanked Farley’s collar and managed to lift him off Cecil. “Fucking stop this shit right now.”
But Farley was fired up and wrenched free of my grasp. As he aimed a kick toward Cecil, I stepped toward it, and Farley reluctantly pulled up. Both men’s raspy breathing filled the air.
“Help him up, Farley.”
“I don’t need the bastard’s help.” Cecil jerked himself up and brushed at his blazer and Wranglers. “You owe me thirty-four bucks for the pants.”
“You owe me a lot more than that, Burney.”
“What’s this all about?” I said and waited for one of the old men to speak. “Answer me, damn it.”
“I don’t figure it’s any of your concern, Maggie.” Farley bent down and snatched his cap up from the wet earth. “An old feud, is all.”
I zipped up my knee-length down jacket. “All right. I assume Lynn knows. I’ll just ask her.”
Cecil stepped toward me. “You will not go bothering Lynn about this.”
“She’s got enough on her mind. Besides, she won’t tell you neither,” Farley added.
But I was certain there was someone who would tell me, and I had no doubt she knew all the details. Dorie.
“I’m going to stand right here and watch the two of you walk to your vehicles. And if either of you falls victim to some accident anytime soon, I’ll know who to fill out an arrest warrant for.” I watched both men drive away as Sam Damon and his helper lowered Dan’s and Joseph’s caskets, settled them into the earth, and began filling the two pits with rich, black soil.
I stopped at home and changed into my uniform, then hightailed it back to the office.
Taylor was holding down the fort. “How were the services?” he asked.
“Long.”
“Say, I placed a copy of Kat McKay’s citation in your inbox. And I listened to the poacher tip line call. I didn’t recognize the voice either.”
“Didn’t sound much like a local, did he?”
“No, but that doesn’t really mean anything I guess.” He logged off his computer and cleared his desk. “I’m making part of my back country rounds this afternoon. South Fork Road, up Murderers Creek, and down into Fields Creek. ”
“Sounds good. Be sure to take your lunch break.”
“Headed home right now.” He fetched his coat and hat. “I’ll radio if I see anything interesting. Oh, and Hollis and Detective Bach should be back about one thirty.”
“Take it easy out there.” I perused email and got the word that Trudeau’s son Pete had been notified about his father’s death.
I paced the alcove and thought about Kat McKay out in the Murderers Creek Wildlife Area shooting off that Kel-Tec 9. I wondered how Duncan might react if I ended up arresting his sister for murder. He’d be pissed, of course.
“Nothing in this world is without goddamn complication, is it?” I said aloud to myself.
Trudeau’s murder board needed its own place in the alcove, so I left off mulling over the fate of my budding love affair. At the front counter, I dug around for tape and marke
rs, crouched down and searched the bottom shelf for a chart pack.
I heard the front door open.
“Hello?” A chirpy, girly voice called out. “Trooper Jones?”
I rose to find Jess Bennett standing in our waiting area. She’d also changed out of her funeral wear and was sporting a short skirt with geometric designs running along the diagonal. Her phosphorescent pink bustier shone through a sheer white blouse.
“I thought I’d find the other officer, Senior Trooper Hollis Jones,” she said. “He called me the other day?”
I pulled Taylor’s chair next to my desk. “Have a seat. Trooper Jones is out for lunch.”
Disappointed, but resigned to having to deal with me instead, she sat.
“I called you the day after your cousins were murdered and left a voicemail. You never called me back,” I said.
“I know, ma’am, and I’m sorry. I was on my way to Winnemucca and out of signal range. By the time I listened to your voicemail, I’d already heard the news about Danny and Joey.”
“That wasn’t why I was calling you. When I stopped you Thursday, you said you were taking Guy Trudeau’s twenty-seven head of steers to Boise. That didn’t happen, though, did it?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Where’d you deliver them?”
“I don’t think I’m at liberty to say. You should ask the old man.”
“Ms. Bennett. Maybe you misunderstood Trooper Jones when you talked to him a few days ago. This is not a friendly chitchat over coffee. This is a murder investigation.”
“Do I need a lawyer?”
Jess Bennett no doubt had a better sense of whether she needed legal representation than I did, but I said nothing.
Dead Point (Maggie Blackthorne Book 1) Page 14
