I found what I was looking for in an article describing the boys’ team’s recent one-point loss to the Burns Highlanders. Asa Larkin’s kid was in the grainy photo flanked by teammate Rain McKay-Ferlinghetti and captured in a mid-air dunk shot—cocky in his Lake Oswego–styled mane of coal-black hair. The boy had kept Wakefield as his last name, but his first name was Brady.
12
Evening, February 25
I turned toward Al Bach’s temporary desk, excited to think I might’ve solved the mystery of the name on the sticky note he’d discovered in the glove compartment of the Ram 3500. But he was involved in a phone discussion, as animated as I’d seen him. Voice higher, cadence less resolute, not mad or sad or happy, perhaps remorseful. Possibly talking to his wife, lonely at home in Bend, tired of his trips into the wilderness investigating the murderous tendencies of some of our state’s outback citizenry.
When he clicked off his phone, I rolled my chair in front of his desk. “So about Asa Larkin’s son.”
“Yes?”
“His name’s Brady.”
“Dear Lord.”
I’m not sure why, but that response made me laugh. Loudly. “Sorry, that’s not what I expected you to say, I guess. What’s our next move?”
“Wait and see, unless you have a sense that Larkin and his kid might be ready to pick up and leave.”
“I have no idea, really, but I don’t think so.”
“All right, then. Add it to your murder board for now, and let’s take Dr. Gattis out to pizza or a nice supper. That was Ray on the phone just now. She’s starving. As am I. Bet you are too.”
“Nah. I’ll eat later. I have the Flynn woman’s phone number. I’d like to get her back in the office. Hopefully she hasn’t gone back to Burns already. I want to ask her what happened to those twenty-seven beef cattle, because they sure weren’t at Trudeau’s ranch. And I’d prefer to talk to her in person and in my police station.”
“I’m not ordering you to come to supper, Maggie. But I’d appreciate it. And I think Ray would too.”
“Sure, then. Supper it is.” Again, I spoke to Bach’s forehead.
“Tell you what. Try phoning Ms. Flynn, and if she’s still in town, we’ll interview her together.”
I dialed Jess and waited while it went to voicemail. I let her know we had more questions and told her not to ignore my message this time. Then I phoned Ray and asked her to meet Al and me at the Blue Mountain Lounge.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Maggie. He’s the last person I need to see right now.”
“Yeah, that’s right, where we ate a few nights ago. I’ve got an urge for another cheeseburger. See you there in five.” I hung up and put on my coat. “Your rig or mine?”
“Mine.”
I planned to request Patsy Cline for the short drive there and back.
Dinner with Ray Gattis and Al Bach turned out to be a sober affair, which was not to say somber, but definitely without alcohol. Less profanity too, at least on my part. I tried not to let my quasi chaperone status get in the way of conversation, but in order to keep everything simple and on a platonic plane, I took on the role of provincial nerd, jabbering about the success of the Grant Union Lady Prospectors basketball team.
“I never would have seen you as a fan of high school sports, Maggie,” Ray said when Al got up to use the restroom.
“I haven’t been to even one game. It was just something to blab on about. Now that we’re alone, tell me how you’re doing.”
“I don’t feel like talking about it yet, but if you keep finding corpses at the rate you’re going, then we might get around to the conversation by this time next year.”
“That bad, huh?”
“That fucking bad.”
Bach returned and paid for the meal. “Ray, I meant to ask earlier, but I was so engrossed in the story about the local girls’ basketball team, I forgot.”
Doc and I both laughed.
“Al Bach, did you just make a goddamn joke?” she asked.
Red-faced and flustered, he also laughed. “Sorry, Maggie. No offense.”
“It’s okay. I was just telling Ray I’ve never attended any of their games, so I can’t be much of a real fan.”
“What were you wanting to ask me?” Ray said.
“There was some kind of problem with Mr. Trudeau’s autopsy?”
“Not really. There was evidence of malignancy. The lung, the liver. That’s not what killed him, of course, but it soon would have. It did complicate the autopsy. I wasn’t sure I could finish before my flight, so I canceled the reservation.”
Ray headed back to her motel room, and Bach dropped me off at my office. Jess Flynn hadn’t returned my call, and since it was only just past seven, I drove to Lynn Nodine’s place, where I suspected the relatives had gathered after the Grange hall funeral feast. It was a stretch, but Jess might still be in town, working at comforting her aunt. When I arrived, the place was dark and Lynn’s Volkswagen bus was the only vehicle parked outside the house, half in and half out of the garage.
It seemed she had finally gotten what she wanted. To be left alone, so I left her alone too, turned up the heater in my Tahoe, and continued on up the street, across the bridge over Canyon Creek. I would have been surprised to find Farley Nodine or Ariel Pritchett working at the Rifleman Club tonight, but I stopped in anyway. The owner, a transplant from some town on the coast, was substituting for Farley at the bar, but Ariel was serving drinks and bar snacks.
Some stragglers from the funeral had pushed together a few tables. Relatives mostly, but not Jess Flynn. The jukebox sat silent, and I could hear them talking, their voices low, solemn. I took a booth in the corner.
Ariel wandered over. “How can I help you, Maggie? A beer? Maybe a mixed drink?”
“Seltzer water with lime would be nice.”
“Got no lime. Want it over ice?”
“Sure.”
When she returned with my drink, I asked if she had time to sit and go over a couple of things with me.
“After I put on some music. I don’t need the customers or the owner listening in.”
I watched her select several songs on the jukebox. A kind woman who’d done nothing more nefarious than live a harder life than some in our backwater county. She was already beginning to stoop under the weight of her limited choices. Resigned to forking over her scant shekels for the ironic accoutrement of poverty: cigarettes and a shitload of TV channels. She sat across from me and leaned over the table, balanced on her rawboned elbows.
“Thanks, Ariel. I’d like to follow up on some things.”
“Okay.”
“First, how’re you doing?”
“Well, I was pretty much a basket case at the funeral. I’m only working tonight ’cause I need to keep my job.”
“You should check with Dorie. I think she’s looking for somebody to help her in her thrift store.” A fib, really. But it was in the realm of possibility, I figured.
“No tips at the thrift store, though. You said you wanted to follow up on some things.”
“Did Joseph ever talk about anyone named Brady?”
“That rancher’s kid?”
I nodded.
“He’s new around here. I know he’s trouble, though. Got too much money for his own good. Always tryin’ to get Joey and Danny to get him beer or weed, or plotting something.”
“Plotting? Like what?”
“I don’t really know. I just knew something was up with him ever’ once in a while.”
“Did he have anything to do with the deal you talked about?”
“Like I said the other day, I didn’t know details. Joey said nobody could know, so I doubt they’d involve some kid. Especially that Brady shit.”
“Unless he’s the one who cooked up whatever it was they were involved in.”
She sighed and shrugged, folded her arms across her chest.
“We’re working our tails off, chasing every lead, Ariel. So this is important. Could it h
ave been Brady they were working a deal with?”
“I know you’re tryin’ to find the killer, Maggie, but I’m flustered. I miss Joey a lot.”
“You mentioned the boy was interested in beer and weed. Maybe Brady wanted to work as the middleman selling to other students, and he was looking to Dan and Joseph as the source?” A theory I pulled out of my ass.
“You know dang well it’s always been easy for teenagers to get beer around here. Pot too, even when it was illegal for everybody.”
“Maybe he asked them to commit some other kind of crime. Something more serious.”
“Any of that might’ve been hard for the kid to get away with. His old man’s pretty strict, I guess. Religious nut.”
“So I gathered. Okay, that’s all for now, Ariel. But I need to ask you to keep our conversations confidential. I have to be able to trust you on that.”
She shook her head repeatedly. “I’d never tell anybody nothing that might hurt your case. You gotta believe me.”
“I know you wouldn’t mean to, but we live in a dinky, boring town. Gossiping and spreading rumors is built into our genetic code.”
“Which is why I put on that damn music, remember?”
If the woman was going to repeat our conversation about Brady Wakefield, there was nothing I could do about it. I reached across and patted her upper arm. “I know how you felt about Joey.”
“No. Don’t think you really do. But it don’t matter. I just want justice for both of ’em.”
“I do have one other thing to ask you about.”
She looked over at the tables where the funeral-goers sat drinking. Seemed like everyone needed a refill. “I should get back to work.”
“What’s the beef between Farley and Cecil Burney all about?”
“Maybe gossip and spreading rumors ain’t built into your whatever kind of code after all.”
I glimpsed the hint of a smile.
“Old Cecil’s got the hots for Lynn. And even though they’re divorced, it pisses Farley off every time Cecil comes around. Specially today at the funeral.”
Maybe Cecil’s animosity toward the Nodine twins had something to do with Lynn. It seemed unlikely given the venom tainting his outrage. But it reminded me he’d said he was at an AA meeting seated next to Lynn last Thursday evening. I still needed to verify that.
Parked in the lot behind the Rifleman Club, I dialed Jen Wilson’s number. I was late getting back to her about Louie, and although her clinic was a short walk from her house, even Jen might’ve been hard-pressed to appreciate my call. Sure enough, she came on the line without her usual sunny disposition.
“Sorry to call after hours, Jen.”
“Maggie. Louie’s ready to go home, but can it wait til tomorrow? Vicky and I just turned on Fargo.”
“Sure thing.”
“Come by anytime.”
I briefly distracted myself wondering about Jen’s seeming lack of cheerfulness, and then I let that go. It wasn’t my job to make sure the civilians in my territory were happy. My job was to make sure they were safe.
Just after eight, Hollis texted and invited me to drop by. Lillian and Hank were still up, and it was a good time to visit. I stopped off at my apartment to fetch the small wrapped package on my dresser—a red hat I’d crocheted from baby wool—and jumped in my Jetta.
Last time I’d been to their home on Airport Road, Lil and I had sat on the front porch out in the weather. I’d admired the view of the John Day River Valley to the north, but tonight I understood even more why they’d chosen to buy this house in particular. The picture window in the living room faced southwest toward the Aldrich range. I also liked how they had decorated the place—a mix of their separate cultures overlaid with infant paraphernalia. It all exuded pride. And love. And baby smells.
“Damn,” I said, “he’s the most beautiful newborn I’ve ever seen.” Which I could count on one hand, truth be told.
Made sense, though. Hollis and Lil were both physically attractive, stunning even, and their child had inherited a gorgeous meld of Paiute and African ancestry—almond-shaped eyes, thick dark hair, and creamy brown skin. He lay in his swaddling blanket inside the papoose carrier that Lil had woven. I noticed he wasn’t wearing Taylor’s Mickey Mouse ears.
Unwrapping Hank’s hat, Lillian held her breath. “It’s incredible. Red stands for faith and happiness. It’s handmade, right?”
I nodded.
“You made that, Sarge?”
“Yep.”
He bent forward and crushed me with a bear hug.
“We’re honored, Maggie,” Lil said, joining in our embrace.
“Gosh, Mr. and Mrs. Two Moons-Jones.” I wasn’t certain they used that hyphenate anywhere out in the real world, but I thought it fit their kid nicely.
Shortly after I arrived, Lil carried Hank and herself off to bed.
I turned to Hollis. “I think I solved the Brady conundrum, or at least the person who owns the name.”
“Did you want me to guess?” he said after a conspicuous pause.
“Asa Larkin’s kid. And he apparently regularly hit up the Nodine twins for beer and weed. Ariel Pritchett also told me he was always ‘plotting something.’”
“Did she have any details?”
“I don’t believe Ariel’s much into details.”
“Maybe she should be encouraged to get more into details, then.”
“I think it helps for her to stew on things. But I know she’s also cautious about ratting out Joseph and his brother in any way.”
“No way to rat them out now.”
“She’s scared she’ll reveal something about herself, I suppose.”
“Ariel was about to elope with Joseph. Doesn’t she pretty much have to know more than she’s saying?”
I knew Holly was probably right about that. Also knew I’d avoided pressing her for more information.
“There’s a good chance, I’d say. And some possibility she’s taking advantage of our childhood connection.”
“I never noticed that working for anyone else around here.”
“Even so, the next conversation with her, I want you to be there.”
“Or better yet. Detective Bach.”
Halfway up the stairs to my apartment, I stopped, walked back down to Dorie’s place, and pulled the clapper on her strange antique doorbell. She emerged from her residence in back of the thrift store.
“Maggie. You don’t have to ring, just come on in,” she said, opening the door.
I followed her to the living room and sat in the overstuffed chair next to an oak table, forgetting this was the corner where she left her treacly sandalwood incense burning.
Dorie sat across from me and fetched a quilting project from the satchel full of fabric sitting at her feet. “It’s for the Jones baby. Henry, right?”
“That’s right. They’re calling him Hank, though.”
She proceeded to baste together the layers of stitched squares of gingham, the batting, and the flannel backing.
“It’s lovely, D. Hollis and Lillian will appreciate it, especially since it’s handmade.”
“I talked to Lillian at Chester’s Market just last week. She’s a sweet little thing.”
I knew Dorie better than I knew anyone, and this was code for not being sure Lil was sweet at all.
“Have you eaten dinner?” she asked.
“I had a cheeseburger at the BM earlier.”
“I bet those people wish they’d never named that place the Blue Mountain Lounge. I have some pie in the kitchen. You’re welcome to a piece.”
“No, thanks. I wanted to ask you about something.”
She placed her quilting hoop back in the satchel. “Shoot.”
“Farley and Cecil Burney got into a row after the funeral. Do you know what that might’ve been about?”
“Oldest story in the world.”
“Somebody told me Cecil has a thing for Lynn. And apparently Farley gets riled up about it even though
they’ve been divorced for years.”
“Decades, but that’s only part of it. Lynn and Cecil had an affair while she and Farley were still married.”
“God. I find it hard to believe Lynn would have anything to do with that filthy old drunk. But I guess Farley’s pretty much in that same category.” The same category Tate had been in.
“Lynn was a regular wild girl when she was young and drank quite a bit herself. She stopped before the twins were born, but she and Farley split up not too long after. If it weren’t for her Forest Service job, and AA, of course, she’d be a sadder case than she already is.”
I’d never thought of Lynn Nodine as being a sad case.
“I’ve prayed and prayed for her.”
“Kind of like you’ve prayed and prayed for me?”
“Exactly like that. And I noticed one of those prayers was answered.”
“Meaning?”
“I saw your pizza delivery guy come by last night, and I heard him leave early, early this morning.” Dorie flashed one of her wry smiles.
I rose to leave. “It’s time for me to be going. Thanks for the old gossip.”
“Sit for a while longer. I’m going to get us both a piece of pie.”
She stood and ambled to the kitchen. I sat back down and pushed the burning incense to the far side of the table.
When Dorie returned with our desserts, we sat quietly, chewing.
“Apple pie is my favorite. So good,” I said. “Back to our conversation a moment.”
“The part about Duncan?”
“No. Let that rest, would you?”
“Oh, sure I will.”
“The affair with Lynn, is that why Cecil despised Dan and Joseph?”
“I don’t know. Maybe indirectly? There were rumors for a while that Cecil was the twins’ actual father. I never asked Lynn about it and never will. But I didn’t think those boys resembled Cecil, or Farley either, for that matter. I always just thought they looked like each other.”
“They reminded me of Lynn, except for the eyes. Whether or not Cecil was their father or knew he was or wasn’t, the wrath he still has for those boys is…”
Dead Point (Maggie Blackthorne Book 1) Page 16
