Murderers Creek (Maggie Blackthorne Book 2)

by LaVonne Griffin-Valade

  “That’d put me too close to you two. Don’t wanna cramp your style.”

  “You wouldn’t, Dorie. And I promise, I’d love it.”

  “Yeah? How about Duncan, would he like that?”

  “Who cares?” I joked.

  “Don’t give me that, girl. I know I can be a bother.”

  “Not true. I don’t even mind your occasional preaching. Besides, between your cooking and Duncan’s, I’d be all set.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want you to get too spoiled, but I’ll think about looking into Three Flags Landing.”

  “Good,” I said and gave her a peck on the cheek.

  “And some other properties, too. Reminds me, you know anybody in real estate?”

  “You know Jen Wilson, right?”

  “The vet? Sure, I know her.”

  “Her wife, Vicky, sells real estate.”

  “Wife? Do they call each other that?”

  “Well, yes. They are married, after all. And by a preacher and everything.”

  “You really are trying to turn me into a heathen, aren’t you?” she lamented.

  “C’mon, the Dorie Phillips I’ve known my entire life is not a bigot. Or is there something I don’t know?”

  “I’m not a bigot. It’s just other people, my church…some people in my church believe it’s against God’s law.”

  “Yeah, well, some people in your church think it’s sinful for a man and a woman to have consensual sex out of wedlock.”

  “And you already know I don’t agree with that.”

  “That’s right. The Dorie Phillips I’ve known my entire life is also not judgmental. Except where profanity’s concerned.”

  “Also where small-mindedness and prejudice are concerned. And violence. Bullying. Cheating,” she added.

  “And lying,” I added.

  “Well, a little innocent fib now and again never hurt anyone.”

  I took her hand. “That’s the Dorie I know.”

  “What’s the name of Vicky’s real estate agency?”

  “Vicky Wilson Realty.”

  “Didn’t know she took Jen’s last name.”

  “Don’t know as she would’ve if they hadn’t had a kid together.”

  “Cute little thing, too.” Dorie paused. “Are you planning to go by Maggie McKay when you marry Duncan?”

  “Hell no.”

  Dorie frowned. “Thought so. And if you have children? Are they gonna be called Blackthorne-McKay, heaven forbid?”

  “Tut-tut. That sounds a tad judgmental.”

  “Oh, Maggie, I’m gettin’ too old to keep up with all the changes about how things are supposed to be these days.”

  “Nah, you’re just human. Kindest one I know, but not perfect.” I stood to leave. “I like that about you.”

  “Oh dear, I forgot the iced tea.” She combed the tuft of bangs from her eyes. “Must be time for my nap.”

  Driving through Canyon City, finally making my way to Duncan’s, I passed the postage-sized town park. A couple of young guys were engaged in a clumsy back-and-forth of fists. It wasn’t a friendly tussle, made clear by the smaller one’s bleeding lip. And I could’ve lived with that if the larger of the two hadn’t knocked the other one to the ground and began delivering some serious blows.

  I sounded my horn and pulled over. By the time I’d put the brake on and exited my Jetta, the bigger guy had hightailed it out of the park and could be seen sprinting up East Road toward the cemetery.

  I trotted to the boy still sitting on the grass. “Are you okay, son?”

  He wiped blood from his mouth. “I’m fine. And don’t call me son.”

  Kids these days. I’d gotten this kind of shit from a few of them. I probably deserved it, though, given the crap I’d handed a few police officers back in the day.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Am I in trouble for getting beat up in the park?”

  “Depends. Your name?”

  “Lyle.”

  “And the rest of it, Lyle.”

  “Davis.”

  “Ah, Cecil’s great-nephew. You and I had a nice little chitchat over the phone earlier. I’m Sergeant Blackthorne.”

  He eyed my street clothes before pulling himself up from the ground. “Okay?”

  “I’d like to see some ID.”

  Lyle opened his ratty wallet and produced his Oregon driver’s permit.

  I took it and read his particulars. The boy was only fifteen. “It’s a long way to Boise and back. How much of the driving did you do on Thursday?”

  He shrugged. “Most of it. Uncle Cece took the wheel a few times, though. It’s just, he gets really tired on long road trips, so he got to curl up against the passenger-side door whenever I was driving.”

  That seemed dubious, but I handed the permit back. “What was the kerfuffle about?”

  “Nothin’. Dude doesn’t like me is all.”

  “I don’t like a lot of people, but you don’t see me punching them to the ground in a public park.”

  He shrugged again.

  “What’s the other guy’s name?” I asked.

  “Don’t know,” he spat out.

  I gave him one of my sarcastic gazes.

  “I really don’t know his name,” he said, pained. “I’ve seen him at school, but I don’t know him.”

  “How’s that possible? There are fewer than two hundred high school students.”

  “He’s older. And a jock.”

  And likely a dickish bully.

  “Are we done? I have to get home with my mom’s groceries.” He pointed to the paper bag resting in the shade of a nearby locust tree.

  There was something about the kid. Loneliness? No, but he was a loner, I suspected. Sure wasn’t a fighter like his Uncle Cecil had been, or so the mythology went.

  “Can I give you a ride home?”

  “No. It’s not far.” He snared his groceries and walked toward Rebel Hill Road.

  I got back in my Jetta. Exhausted, I wanted to crawl under Duncan’s summer quilt and hibernate for days. I turned the key and pulled back onto 395.

  I had drifted back to sleep when I heard a phone ring somewhere. Downstairs, I decided. I couldn’t remember if I’d left mine charging in the kitchen last night or brought it upstairs with me.

  I opened my eyes and sat up slowly. I hadn’t felt this kind of dull lethargy in years. I lay back on my pillow. Louie stirred at the foot of the bed.

  “Hey, guy,” I whispered and closed my eyes.

  I heard the bedroom door open. “Maggie?” Duncan inquired gently.

  I sat up again. “Was my phone ringing?”

  “Nope. Mine. It was my third call from Scam Likely this morning.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Seven thirty.”

  “Shit.” I lifted the covers and climbed out of bed.

  He raked a large hand through his thick hair. “You worked all weekend. You can be late this once.”

  “I can’t. Detective Bach is likely on his way back.”

  “You know that?”

  “No, but…I need to talk to Hollis.”

  “So you’ll talk to Hollis at eight thirty instead of eight.”

  I stepped around him in an attempt to scurry to the shower.

  “Babe,” he said. “There’s no hurry. Really.”

  “Goddamn it, Dun. Leave me be.”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “All right. I’ll tend to breakfast.”

  “Just a glass of milk. I’m not hungry.”

  “Babe, you skipped supper last night. You have to eat.”

  “I haven’t needed a mom for a long time,” I snapped and trudged to the bathroom.

  A full glass of milk sat on the dining table. I swept it up and drank it down. Retrieved my phone and grabbed my OSP cap and pack. I could hear Duncan in the shower. “Crap.”

  I walked down the hall, opened the bathroom door a crack. “I’ll call you later.”

  He didn’t answer.
<
br />   “Bye, Dun!”

  “Uh-huh,” he said resentfully.

  Passing through the front yard, I noticed coreopsis newly abloom in a corner. Coreopsis was a favorite of mine, and Duncan had planted them especially for me. But I hadn’t paid much attention to his late-summer flowerbed in the last few days.

  When I reached my Jetta and grasped the door handle, I was abruptly aware I was about to retch. Crouching above dry earth, I let the wave of nausea pass. I rose and inhaled the strong, sweet scent of mown alfalfa drifting in from somewhere. Hoping to avoid the possibility of another round of queasiness, I covered my mouth and nose, opened the car door, flung my pack in the passenger seat, and shut myself inside.

  “Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me?”

  I sat for a long minute, finally turning the key. At the bottom of the hill, I crossed the bridge over Canyon Creek and started to nudge out onto Highway 395. Instead, I put the Jetta in park, grabbed my phone, and brought up my online calendar. I checked for any notes or reminders I might’ve entered over the last several weeks. Nada.

  “Can’t be.” I pulled onto the roadway and drove to Dorie’s parking lot, where I’d left my police vehicle. From there, I headed to the station house, pushing out thoughts having to do with anything other than our homicide investigation.

  I half expected Al Bach to be waiting for me when I arrived at the office and was relieved to find he wasn’t parked out front. Sherry Linn’s on-the-phone-with-a-citizen voice greeted me as I opened the door. She smiled and mouthed, “Good morning.”

  The place was already stuffy, but I was okay with that. It meant things were semi-normal.

  “Morning, Sarge,” Hollis mumbled. He looked as beat as I felt.

  “Holly.”

  Hollis continued. “Saw the murder board. I’ve got questions.”

  I plopped my pack on my desk. “So do I.”

  “The Proto fishing tackle box filled with heroin that Doug found and the Proto tackle box and Buck Guthook knife Cecil Burney reported stolen,” he began. “How did all of that fall into your lap after I talked to you at the park yesterday? And what do you think it all means?”

  I sighed and sat in my desk chair. “As for your second question, it likely means somebody made off with Burney’s tackle box, removed his Buck knife, tucked some heroin inside the metal container, and hauled it out to the headwaters of Murderers Creek.

  “To your first question…” I paused and massaged my temples. “I don’t know how it all fell into my lap, exactly.”

  Another sudden urge to heave forced me up from my chair and propelled me toward the lavatory, where I slammed the door and stood over the commode.

  “Fuck me dead,” I muttered, leaning into the stained toilet bowl.

  After several minutes, my stomach settled. At the sink, I splashed warm water on my face, toweled off, and padded back to my desk.

  “Maggie?” Hollis said.

  Sherry Linn had joined him.

  “I probably should’ve taken a day off this weekend. I felt a bit wobbly for a second there,” I explained.

  “How long have you been feeling wobbly?” Sherry Linn asked.

  I smiled at the two of them. “I was really tired last night and didn’t feel much better when I woke up this morning.”

  “Go home, Sarge,” Hollis demanded.

  “Go to hell, Trooper Jones.” I gestured toward the murder board in the alcove. “I’m not going home, not with all this shit to sort out.”

  “I’ll make you some hot ginger tea,” Sherry Linn offered.

  I shook my head. “Nah.”

  “Too late. I already have water heating,” she said and beat spike-heeled feet toward the electric kettle, now whistling away.

  “God.” I was exasperated, in need of a dark, quiet room.

  “Sit down, Maggie. Please,” Holly replied soothingly.

  I returned to the seat at my desk. “Where were we?”

  “Let’s start with the fishing tackle box Doug found.”

  “Harry Bratton has it.”

  Hollis widened his eyes. “You were busy yesterday.”

  “I was. To top it all off, on the way back to Duncan’s place last evening, I broke up a fight between Cecil’s nephew and some other boy.”

  “Didn’t know Cecil had a nephew.”

  “Me neither. He’s actually Burney’s great-nephew. Quiet kid. Name’s Lyle. Davis. We had talked over the phone earlier while Cecil was in the office filing that theft report.”

  “Why’d you end up talking to the boy?” Holly asked.

  “I questioned Cecil about his whereabouts on Thursday. Told me Lyle had driven him to a medical appointment in Boise. Kid confirmed that, and I believe it for now.”

  “Because why would Cecil report his tackle box stolen if he’d stuffed it with heroin and dropped it off in the wilderness?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “But more compelling, at this point, anyway, is why would he report the theft of his Buck knife if he’d used it to murder J.T. Lake a few days before?”

  “Maybe the old guy’s wilier than we give him credit for.”

  “Cecil’s definitely a lot of things. A nasty bastard, a filthy drunk, and in some circumstances, possibly capable of murder. But wily? Not in my estimation.”

  He nodded. “Not in my estimation either. Although part of me wouldn’t mind sticking the racist troglodyte in a jail cell and watching him squirm a bit.”

  “Why, Hollis Jones. You’ve stolen my favorite diss of ignorant assholes.”

  “A word like troglodyte? Couldn’t help myself.”

  Sherry Linn appeared with the ginger tea and placed it on my desk.

  “Thanks,” I said and held the warm mug between my clammy hands.

  “Anytime. Let me know if you want more,” she replied and flounced back to her stool at the front counter.

  I wasn’t a big fan of tea, but I sipped the umber liquid. It was better than I expected. Good, in fact.

  “God, this really does make me feel like a human again,” I said, regarding the tea.

  “Be sure and let Sherry Linn know that,” Holly advised.

  “What, you think I’m a troglodyte too?”

  “I plead the fifth.”

  “Be quiet. I need to write some reports and maybe touch base with Bach.”

  His forehead furrowed slightly. “Think I’ll make my usual Monday morning patrol circuit, unless you have other plans for me today.”

  “Remind me, does your usual Monday morning patrol circuit include Murderers Creek and surrounding environs?”

  “It does today,” Hollis said.

  “I appreciate that.”

  He withdrew his keys from the middle drawer of his desk and locked it.

  “And, Holly. Be damned careful out there.”

  “I will.” He turned to leave but hesitated. “One thing I meant to ask you. Well, two things really.”

  “Okay?”

  “First, did you see the piece about J.T.’s murder and the deaths of Cruise and Porter in the Sunday Oregonian yesterday?”

  “Nah. Is that the article you were perusing when I met you at the park?”

  He shook his head. “I came across it later. You might not be happy about the reporter referring to you as a trooper instead of a sergeant, though.”

  “I don’t give a shit. Technically I am a trooper, as in, I keep soldiering on.”

  “Good one.” Hollis smirked.

  “Anyway, state trooper is what most of us are referred to, generically speaking.”

  “Just making sure you weren’t going to be pissed.”

  “Is that because you not only see me as a troglodyte but you think I’m an egotistical troglodyte?”

  “Nope, just a troglodyte.”

  “Get your ass on the road.”

  “On my way, Sarge.” Hollis began to head for the door.

  “Wait,” I called out. “Wasn’t there something else you were going to ask me?”

  “Oh, r
ight. I need a few days off at the end of the month. Lil’s having surgery.”

  “Of course,” I answered. “Just fill out the leave request and I’ll approve it.”

  Despite protocol directing me to do otherwise, I normally would’ve asked for more details about Lil’s surgery. But I’d already prepared myself for this very leave request. The last thing I was going to do now was put my best bud on the spot.

  “Thanks, Maggie. Call me if you need me.”

  “See you later.” Given my new bent toward sentimentality, I tamped down the urge to openly weep and stared at my computer until I heard the front door click shut.

  13

  Late Morning, August 17

  Detective Bach rang through to my desk phone. We hadn’t had a conversation or communiqué in almost two days, and there was a good deal to discuss.

  “Morning, Maggie. I read your report on the encounter with Mr. Muldaur. From your description, it didn’t sound like he was much of a desperado,” he remarked.

  “Nothing all that suspicious yet, but you probably also saw my summary of the discussion with Trooper Hadley from Condon.”

  “Saw that. Surprising he got back to you on a Sunday.”

  Was Al telegraphing an observation in line with Holly’s negative view of Hadley? In line with mine too years back, but I had to take whatever help I could get out here.

  “Maybe he called back on a Sunday because he knew me from the Academy,” I said.

  “Could be. Anyway, what else do you have?”

  “Nothing more on Muldaur, but Doug Vaughn, our new Fish and Wildlife trooper, found a fishing tackle box partially filled with heroin at the headwaters of Murderers Creek.”

  “What?” Al was momentarily stunned. “Is that location close to where Sergeant Lake was killed?”

  “Not next door, but relatively nearby given we’re talking about mountain back roads. You can check out Trooper Vaughn’s report for more detail. But in the meantime, the same day Vaughn found the tackle box, a local guy reported his missing. Same brand, same color. More importantly, he claimed the Buck knife he used for gutting trout was also stored in the tackle box.”

  “You’re not suspicious about all of that?”