by Pamela Cowan
Two small border collies wound around their owner’s feet like fuzzy slippers. The woman who stood there was short and stooped. She appeared to be in her seventies or older. One age-spotted hand clutched the handle of a cane. Her tightly permed hair was dyed an improbable dark brown and she’d applied blush, two irregular red blotches on her cheeks. “What can I do for you?” she asked with a welcoming smile. “Are you lost?”
“No, I don’t think so. Are you Mrs. Mackie?”
“I am,” she said, her look growing more suspicious now that her theory had been disproved. Emma realized that the few strangers this woman saw at her door were most likely lost. She probably didn’t see a lot of door-to-door salesman way out here. Not when the doors were so far apart. Maybe that was why the woman hadn’t asked who it was before opening the door. It seemed foolish to Emma. Was she a trusting soul, or just too tough to be scared.
Emma gave Mrs. Mackie a smile and said, “I’m a private investigator, looking into the death of your neighbor, Dodge Keller. Do you have time to talk?”
“I do. Not sure what I can tell you though.”
Emma noticed the woman wasn’t inviting her in. Maybe she wasn’t that foolish after all. “You were seen driving through town yesterday morning, a little before the time the ME says Dodge was killed.”
“Oh my. Does that make me a suspect?” she asked, an unmistakable twinkle of amusement lighting up her eyes.
“No, I don’t think so,” Emma replied. “At least you’re not on my list—yet.” She let the last word sit there a moment and was rewarded with a smile. “I was wondering if you saw anyone driving toward Dodge’s house around that time?”
Mrs. Mackie, nodded. “Well yes, as I told the police, I did see someone that morning. I saw Willy Keene. I told them I thought he’d probably get a ticket if he doesn’t get some work done on that truck. He’s dangerous in that old thing. I think the steering is bad. He was bouncing all over the road.
“His father could buy him something better. Got money falling out of his pockets. Though you’d never believe it to see him, or the way he keeps his family. The Keene’s aren’t too keen on spending money.” She chuckled at her play on words and Emma couldn’t help but smile at the woman’s upbeat personality.
“I remember that morning,” she continued, “because I went off to have breakfast with my daughter at the Copper Kettle in Hollis. Then I went and got my hair done. It was getting too long, wouldn’t hold a curl.”
“It looks great. Do you like your hairdresser?” Emma asked. “I haven't found anyone I like.”
“Oh my, yes. Her name is Kylie Lynn,” Mrs. Mackie offered, with a wide smile. “I just love her. She works out of the Crystal Palace Salon on Evergreen. You’ll want to call first to make sure you get her.”
“I’ll do that,” Emma promised.
“Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
“Thanks, but I’m in a hurry. So, you’re positive. That morning you didn’t see anyone but Willy Keene. No one walking, or riding a horse?
“Only the Keene boy’s truck.” she repeated.
After thanking her, Emma left. The woman was nice, maybe a little lonely, and Emma was pretty sure she’d told her all she knew. Her next stop was just a little farther up the road. A mobile home that belonged to a woman named Rose.
The double wide sat on a couple of acres. Emma conjectured it either belonged to the Mackie Ranch, or once had, and had been split off and sold. To the left of the house was an orchard, to the right a garden. It had been harvested and tilled and now sat waiting for spring planting. The house was painted a cheerful yellow with white trim. The wood deck was painted white and white lattice skirted it. Emma climbed the stairs, enjoying the bright yellow and orange mums in clay pots that had been placed on the ends of each step.
In the center of the door, at eye level, a decal had been affixed, the silhouette of a flying eagle with the word NATIVE spelled out beneath in capital letters. Emma knocked and waited.
There was no response to her knock but she wasn’t surprised. There had been no cars in the driveway or the carport. As she was turning to leave, she heard tires on gravel and watched a blue sedan pull into the driveway. She felt awkward, as if she’d been caught at something. Pushing the guilty feeling away, she put on her friendliest smile and walked to the edge of the deck.
The woman who got out of the car looked Native American to Emma, though she realized that was probably location bias at work. In a different setting she might have looked Italian or Spanish. She had jet black hair twisted into a thick bun, a wide face, and big brown eyes that stared directly into Emma’s. The teal scrubs, gray sweater and comfortable looking white sneakers she wore shouted health care professional to Emma. Over one shoulder she carried a leather purse stamped with western designs. In her hands she held a bag of fast food and a drink in a large to-go cup.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked in a firm tone that sounded practiced and professional. The kind of tone you’d expect from someone telling you it was time to take a pill or have your bandage changed.
“Hi,” Emma said, still feeling awkward. “I hope so. Are you Rose?”
“That depends,” the woman said, a soft smile changing her suspicious look to a friendlier one. “What are you selling?”
“Nothing. I promise,” Emma said, and this time her smile was genuine. “I’m a private investigator. I’m here following up on a shooting that happened yesterday morning.”
“You mean Dodge Keller?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” said Emma.
“But why would you want to talk to me?” she asked, looking puzzled.
“You are Rose, right?”
“Yes, Rose Jamison. Now, what is this about?”
“You were seen driving through town yesterday morning, in the direction of the Keller house. Haven’t the police questioned you?”
“They haven’t.” She climbed the steps and moved past Emma toward the front door, juggling the purse, the paper bag, the soda, and a set of keys.
“Here, let me help you,” Emma offered.
Rose handed her the soda, unlocked the door and with only a moment of hesitation, went in then gestured for Emma to follow.
The inside of the house was as tidy as the yard indicated it might be. A leather couch and chair faced a wood burning stove on a river rock hearth. The painted skull of a buffalo hung near it and a few good pieces of art featuring Native American scenes graced the rest of the walls.
Beyond the living room, was a dining table, empty but for a woven basket filled with dried flowers. Rose put her lunch on the table and hung her purse from one of the ladder-back chairs. Emma put the soda down next to the paper bag.
“Please, take a seat,” Rose said. Emma sat down in a chair diagonal to hers.
“So, you want to ask me why my car was seen yesterday?” Rose frowned, reached into the paper bag, removed a straw, unwrapped it, poked it through the plastic lid and took a sip of soda. Finally she said, “My car is seen in town every day. I live here.”
Emma noticed her initial friendly manner was fading fast. She said, “Yes, and I didn’t mean to make you think you were a suspect. I’m surprised the police haven’t talked to you. They, and I, want to know if you saw anyone else. Especially anyone driving past your house toward the Keller place.”
“I see, and I understand why the cops would care, but how about you? Who are you working for?”
Emma said, “I’m working for an insurance company. Dodge Keller had a policy on a warehouse that burned down. Now he’s been killed. I’m curious if those two things are related. Did you know him?”
“Let me see your identification?”
Emma dragged it from her purse and, after a thorough examination, Rose nodded.
Emma was increasingly aware of the smell of burgers, especially since she’d been craving one since seeing the Mackie’s cows. Rose’s lunch was getting cold. “I’m sorry I caught you at lunch,” she said.
&nb
sp; “I’m surprised you caught me at all. I rarely come home for lunch, it’s a bit of a haul. I work the early shift at the hospital. Took a two hour lunch so I could run some errands. Had to take the car in for an oil change and then hit the DMV to renew my registration. It’s all about the cars, right? Anyway, it took less time than I thought so I grabbed some fast food and came home.”
Emma’s gut, as Gwen liked to call it, went on alert. Rose hadn’t struck her as chatty, yet suddenly she was over explaining. Was she nervous about something?”
“So, did you know Mr. Keller?”
“Not really. I mean, he and my husband hung out sometimes, got a beer after work, that sort of thing, but I didn’t really know him.”
“Maybe I should speak with your husband then.” suggested Emma. She almost said Jelly but wasn’t sure Audie hadn’t made a mistake. She said she’d only had the job three months. Maybe she’d misheard.
“You can’t. He’s out of town.”
“I see, and what’s his name?”
“Charles, though really he won’t know anything about this. He’s on a job. He does construction. He’ll be gone for a month or so.”
“Oh, well maybe you can call him for me. I’d like you to ask him whether he knows of anyone who was angry with Mr. Keller. If he knows of anyone who would have wanted to burn down his building, or wanted him dead. If you prefer, I can give you my number and you could ask him to call me. I’d like to find out if Mr. Keller was worried about anything or anyone.”
Rose chuckled.
Emma gave her a quizzical look.
“You didn’t know Dodge, that’s for sure. The man didn’t have the capacity for worry. I mean, like I said, I didn’t know him well but I’ve heard he liked to fight. In fact . . .” She paused. Ellen could almost see warning lights go off as the woman looked down, picked up the straw wrapper and began folding it. “In fact, he had a bad reputation,” she continued, “but he never did anything to me or my husband. They weren’t all that close though. Like I said, just the occasional drink.”
Emma wondered at the abrupt shift. Was Rose simply concerned that she sounded like a gossip or was she hiding something? She made a mental note to remember this later.
“I’ll let you get back to lunch. I just have one more question for you. Did you see anyone else yesterday morning? Any cars that might have been heading in the direction of Dodge’s house? Anyone walking?”
“No, I’m sorry. When I left it was dark and no one was out. It’s like a ghost town that early in the morning. I don’t remember seeing a car, or anyone, until I hit the highway.”
Emma apologized for her timing and for letting Rose’s lunch get cold.
“That’s okay, I’ll just nuke it,” she said.
Emma thought, from the way she wrinkled her nose at the mention of lunch, that Rose had probably lost her appetite. She imagined the bag hitting the garbage can as soon as she left. She just wasn’t sure why. There had definitely been something off in their conversation. Her gut was sure of it. Her brain just hadn’t caught up yet.
She drove to the sheep rancher’s next. As Audie had said, his place was a quarter mile further up and on the opposite side of the road from the Mackie Ranch. Like the Mackie’s, the house was off the main road at the end of a gravel road that wound through trees and then through open grazing land. This time, instead of cows, herds of sheep moved slowly through the scenery, grazing at the brown stubble or sleeping, their forms reminding Emma of ragged balls of dirty lint.
Part of the house was one story, part was two. Emma guessed the single story had been the original cabin and the rest had been later additions. It was painted white on white like the Mackie place but had a red metal roof instead of green. A wood and wire fence surrounded the house, probably to keep out the sheep. Emma parked outside, opened the unlocked gate and walked in. A dog appeared from behind the house. She hesitated a moment, her hand still on the gate, but the dog only trotted up, sniffed at her ankles and turned, as if to lead her to the house. The image of a perfect butler.
A sign beside the door read, ‘Welcome to the Olstad’s.’ At least she now had the correct last name. She knocked and rang the bell but there was no answer. To the left of the driveway a large carport held an old station wagon with wood panels and an RV. The stall nearest the house was empty. The tracks leading to it were worn the deepest. She suspected the vehicle he drove most often was missing and that Harry Olstad was not home.
She took out an index card, wrote a short note asking him to call, added a business card, then slipped both between the screen door and the door jamb.
The last person on her list was Willy Keene. Unfortunately the only thing Audie could tell her about him was that he didn’t live in Muddy Creek. Not sure what step to take next, she decided to listen to her growling stomach, find a restaurant, and give it some thought.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Thursday, September 13
The Major Crimes Unit met in the main conference room of the Eulalona County DA’s office in Blue Spruce, the county seat. It was every bit as nice as the Board of County Commissioner’s work room. A fact the DA had pointed out on more than one occasion. He wouldn’t be doing that today though. He was in Eugene for the morning at a tri-county meeting where, if they’d set it up right, he’d drink a little scotch and play a lot of golf.
Beale, as Chief ADA, would represent the DA’s office today. He took his seat, a leatherette swivel chair pulled up to a long rectangular table. The table was dark wood with darker lines of inlay. As any hobbyist woodworker would, he admired it, running his hand across the surface almost affectionately.
As he sat there, the room began to fill. The county sheriff and some of his deputies arrived, followed closely by delegates from most of the city police departments. The last to arrive was the station commander from the state police.
Beale looked around. He knew most of the people there but there were some new faces as well, new cops. He barely suppressed a grin when he spotted those fresh faces. New cops were always hungry to make their bones. Perfect.
One of the admin assistants fluttered around pouring coffee, setting out pitchers of water and a couple boxes of donuts. Discreetly, he checked out her ass. Some of the guys bitched about the change in dress code. Few of the women wore dresses anymore, but Beale didn’t mind. Tight slacks over a tight ass beat bare ankles any day.
Bernie Zhang, Chief of Police of Blue Spruce, was talking. Something about a drug deal gone bad. Everyone thought Dodge Keller had been killed over drugs. That maybe someone had taken his stash and then shot him. Beale took his attention off the admin and refocused on the meeting.
“We all know the guy had a lot of enemies,” said one of the Hollis City cops.
Beale couldn’t remember his name and would have to make a point of finding out. Hard to be the friendly guy at the DA’s office, the counterpoint to the serious guy, if you couldn’t recite their names, the names of their wives, their kids, and their fucking dogs.
“I heard he had a reputation for raping women,” said Leblanc, the deputy who had been the first responder.
“He did,” said one of the new deputy DA’s from Beale’s office. “Everyone figured as soon as one of them came forward we’d have him. Get one to talk and it usually gives others the courage to come forward. Once that happens, it's a pretty easy conviction.” The man looked toward Beale as if seeking confirmation. Magnanimously, Beale nodded.
The conversation drifted. Moving away from the issue at hand, the murder of Dodge Keller, to other, less interesting cases. Beale stifled a yawn and told himself to be patient. He needed the conversation to go in a certain direction, but he didn’t want to steer too much. He was confident that if he just waited, an opportunity would present itself. Always let them think it was their idea. Management 101.
Finally they came back to the day of the murder. The lead detective gave a summary of what they’d found at the Keller residence. Then he said, “We talked to a local and
learned four individuals had been seen either heading to or from the direction of the Keller residence that morning.” Consulting his notes he recited, “Rose Jamison, Harry Olstad, Norma Mackie and Willy Keene.”
When he said the last name Beale gave out a small sound, a sort of whistle between his teeth. Those seated near him shot him a quick look. He rubbed the back of his neck and gave a chagrined smile.
The detective, who hadn’t noticed, went on. “We got confirmation on the presence of two of them from a worker at the community center. A guy who had gone in early to set up for an event. Those two are Harry Olstad and Willy Keene. We’ve spoken to one of them, Mrs. Mackie, and are setting up interviews with Keene and the other two.
Two recently hired cops from Blue Spruce were sitting next to each other, directly across from Beale. One had a thin face, dimpled chin and wore an intent look, like every word had to be memorized. The other was all muscles, biceps stretching the fabric of his shirt, with a bullet head he’d shaved nearly bald. Beale leaned forward just a little and in a low voice asked, “Is this Willy guy as bad as everyone says?”
The deputies exchanged a look. Two new guys trying to fit in and eager to give the right answer. Muscles turned back first. Nodded sagely.
Near the end of the meeting when they’d finished the agenda and the conversation was less structured, Muscles, Officer McVay, according to his name tag, finally found his chance to fill Beale in. He leaned forward and confided, “Willy Keene will be the hardest suspect to interview.”
Beale nearly smiled. It was just the opening he’d hoped for. Giving McVay his full attention, he nodded his approval. “Yes, I agree. We all know what a bad character he is. The DA’s office wants him, but we don’t want any of you taking unnecessary risks. We know he’s armed and dangerous and that he’s not going to quietly let himself be arrested.”
