The Dunn Deal

by Catherine Leggitt

  At my age, I rarely ventured out unescorted after dark. Even in my wildest day—way before I married Jesse thirty-nine years ago—I never went trolling in bars. Nice girls didn’t, my mother said. But mostly people frequent bars at night, so this particular hunt couldn’t be done in the daytime. I wasn’t sure what I’d encounter, so I took Molly along for backup.

  Of course, Molly loves everyone. If someone threatened me, Molly would probably do nothing more aggressive than lick an adversary to death or perhaps even knock someone down with her wagging tail. Still, she was always great company and smart enough to go for help should the need arise.

  It made me feel braver just to have her along. “You’re terrific moral support, aren’t you, girl?” Molly stirred and sat on the passenger seat gazing at me, tongue hanging out. Sometimes I really think she understands what I say. I scratched her head and she settled down again.

  In less than an hour I arrived at Half Moon House. Built as a lodge more than sixty years ago, the historic building lay midway along scenic Highway 20 between Nevada City and Interstate 80. Addresses on Highway 20 were often measured in proximity to the famous landmark. Everyone knew where it was.

  Dusk had just settled into darkness when I pulled into the parking lot. The rustic log building housed a restaurant and inn with a small tidy bar area, both of which had been recently remodeled. A female bartender wearing black slacks and a clean white long-sleeve shirt worked behind the new granite bar. No one sat on the squeaky leather seats.

  I eyed the bar stool and sidled up, no small feat with short legs like mine. Why do they make these chairs so tall? After I wiggled into place, I flashed a smile. “Hello. I’m looking for a woman who met Deputy Baxter Dunn at a bar on the night of his death. I thought it might be this bar. Were you here that night?”

  “Dunn?” She stopped drying a glass and tilted her head. “Was he the one got killed a few weeks ago?”

  “Right.”

  She set the glass precisely in its place behind the bar and turned to stare into space over my head. “Yeah. I heard about that. A shame. Right before I started working here.” She shook her head, meeting my gaze. “Don’t know nothing about it.”

  “Do you know someone who might have been here that night?”

  She jerked her head toward the adjacent room. “Try the front desk.”

  “Thanks.” I eased off the stool and approached the desk she indicated, finding no one there. Peering around for a minute without sighting anyone, I hunted for a way to signal for help. No bell. I lingered a few seconds longer, standing on tiptoe to glance over the desk. “Yoo-hoo? Anybody home?”

  At length, a man with a pencil stuck behind one ear shuffled over. “You want a room for tonight?”

  “No, thanks.” I flashed my toothy smile. “Just a little information. Were you here the night Baxter Dunn got killed?”

  He frowned. “Already talked to the law.”

  “No, no.” I grinned again. “I’m not from the sheriff’s office. I’m just a friend of the family. I want to find the woman Baxter came to—”

  Impatience filled his eyes. “Look, lady. I don’t know anything about it. No lawman stopped here that night. I already told ’em that twice. Don’t have time to go through it again.” He hurried away.

  I called after him. “Are there other bars on Highway 20?”

  He didn’t look back, raising his voice while he hurried away. “Try the Night Owl.”

  Only slightly daunted, I returned to the Jeep and pulled onto the cool tree-lined avenue. About a mile farther along Highway 20, my headlights illuminated a small building to the left. At the driveway, a crooked sign swinging in the wind marked the location of the Night Owl, Bar and Pool Hall.

  As I veered into the tiny parking lot, I prayed. “Okay, God. Here I am. I really believe You placed this on my heart. Please help me find the woman I need to talk to.”

  Even as those words left my lips, a quiet voice in my head warned that I should wait for Jesse to accompany me; but since I’d already come this far, I chose to ignore the voice of caution. I switched off my headlights and stared at the bar.

  Housed in a single story building, the Night Owl had rough, timber siding. No windows. Why don’t bars have windows? I heard my mother’s warnings playing through my brain. “Men loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil.” Wasn’t that in the Bible somewhere? This must be the kind of place my mother advised me to stay away from.

  A streetlight shone on the front of the building. Based on first impressions, the owners weren’t big on TLC. Shingles dangled off the roof. Tall dry weeds crowded out shrubs in planting boxes along the siding. Five jumbo sized motorcycles rested in front.

  Oh, no. This is a biker bar.

  Not that I knew what a biker bar entailed. I’d heard the term on television, usually associated with brawls. Again, I remembered my mother’s words. “Bikers and alcohol. Not a good mix.”

  A neon entrance sign above the front door blinked ntranc, missing the E’s on either end. I studied it, my inner editor wanting to take out a red pencil and correct the misspelling.

  Maybe they dropped the E’s on purpose. For a few seconds, I considered possible meanings for the abridged version, but nothing brilliant occurred to me.

  In addition to the bikes, I counted six automobiles lined up in the parking area. That made the lot less than half full. Not very crowded for a Friday night.

  Saturday night must be bar night in these parts.

  I gulped down trepidation and opened the car door. “If I’m not right back, Molly, go for help.”

  Why did Molly’s eyes look worried?

  Knees shaking, I eased out of the Jeep. A few uneasy steps and I found myself at the door.

  A stale smoke odor greeted me from the darkened room when I pulled on the knob. Guess they hadn’t heard about California’s no smoking in public places law.

  Glasses jangled and a jukebox blared in the background. After my eyes adjusted to the dim smoky interior, silhouettes of people came into view. Some were sprawled along a bar to the right of the small room. Others sat on mismatched chairs at the rickety round tables scattered over the dull wood floor. A few played pool in one corner.

  At first, the room buzzed with conversation, but the voices stopped abruptly when the door crashed shut behind me.

  Everyone turned to stare.

  For a moment, I stood stiff legged, forgetting what I had planned to say or do once I arrived. Trying to look like I belonged, I picked up my leaden feet and eased into the first empty bar stool I came to.

  What do you do with your hands while you wait?

  After I’d been sitting at the bar for at least a minute, the bartender, a man distinguished by missing teeth with a stained towel wrapped around his middle, drifted toward me looking quite bored. In the dim light, I could barely make out a tattoo of a ghostly schooner which dominated one forearm. An earring dangled from one side of a bushy eyebrow that met its mate in the middle of his forehead.

  He planted both hands on the bar and leaned toward me. “Are you lost, little lady?”

  I tried not to stare at the earring. “No. I’d like a, um, do you have unsweetened iced tea? With a slice of lemon, please.”

  Was that a snicker?

  I peered into the darkness at the other patrons. Some met my gaze and returned to their conversations or their drinks as if they’d been caught in guilty pleasures.

  “No iced tea, lady. No lemons. No mint julep neither.”

  “Oh. Well, how about a…7-Up?”

  The bartender mimicked my request in a sissy voice,

  curling one end of his mouth into a lopsided smile. I nodded firmly, so he sauntered off to retrieve my beverage.

  Come on, Christine. Get a grip. Remember what you came for.

  When he returned with the drink, I cleared my throat. “I’m a friend of Baxter Dunn. Do you know him?”

  The bartender blinked.

  “He was the deputy who
got killed out near the Star Mine about a month ago.”

  I’d never realized how hard talking privately in a public place could be. The trick was to make my voice loud enough so the bartender could hear above the din, but confidential enough that no one else could. My technique needed work because several people stopped talking again to listen in on our conversation. I could almost feel them bend a collective ear toward us en masse.

  “Already told the cops. We don’t know nothing.” The bartender eyed me with suspicion. “But you ain’t a cop.”

  “A cop?” I chuckled and fluttered my hand in denial. “Good heaven’s no. Of course not. I’m a friend of his, of Baxter’s, a friend who’s getting really frustrated with the official investigation into his death.”

  “Whatta you mean?” He leaned on one elbow and glowered at me, wiggling the earring on his big bushy eyebrow.

  “Well, they’re just not getting anywhere, are they? They haven’t even found the black van Baxter supposedly stopped the night he died. They don’t know what he was doing here either.”

  He didn’t look one bit happy to help me. “What exactly do you wanna do about that?”

  The man sitting to my right slid closer. “So, they’re sending little old ladies out to investigate?”

  I’ll let that little old lady thing go for now. “No one sent me to investigate.”

  The bartender crooked the eyebrow on the other side of the earring, making him look more sinister than before. “Like I said, exactly what do you want?”

  I guzzled my 7-Up. “What I want is… uh…information. First off, I want to talk with the woman who met with Baxter here the night of his death.”

  The man at my side pressed closer until I felt his hot whiskey laced breath against my cheek. “Ain’t you in a little over your head, lady?”

  Pool balls broke with a clatter and I jumped.

  I hoped they couldn’t hear my heart pounding, although it thundered against my chest so loudly I feared that people in the next county must’ve heard it. I pulled together all the courage I could muster. “I don’t think so.” I forced my eyes to meet their stares, looking from one to the other. “Is the woman here tonight?”

  The bartender squinted at the man next to me. The man beside me looked me over once more and shrugged. “For sure she ain’t a cop. Maybe she can do some good. That little one could use a friend about now.”

  The bartender nodded toward a table in the far corner. “Think you might find the package you’re looking for back there. Good luck.”

  I dropped a twenty on the counter. Clutching my 7-Up glass in shaky hands, I approached the corner table with mounting trepidation.

  Chapter Five

  I had no trouble finding the package in question. She turned out to be the only female in the place besides me. When I approached the corner table, she glanced up. I stopped to gasp. For a moment the tiny hunched person looked like my former neighbor Lila Payne. But that was impossible. Lila was dead.

  Camouflaged by the shadows, the woman peered at me through tangled mousy brown hair. She wasn’t much bigger than a child. Dark circles underneath her eyes might indicate illness, lack of sleep, or just smudged makeup. She watched me furtively, as if trying to hide behind her hair.

  How could I get her to relax? I plastered on a smile. “Hi. The bartender says you’re the woman Baxter Dunn met here on the night he died. Do you mind if I sit and talk?”

  She blinked several times in slow motion as if I spoke gibberish. After what felt like a full minute’s pause, she waved toward the other chair at the table.

  “Thanks.” I sat and offered my hand, but it hung in the air unclasped so I dropped it into my lap. “My name’s Christine Sterling. I’m Baxter Dunn’s friend. Actually, he was the son

  in-law of very close friends. I’m dissatisfied with the official investigation the sheriff’s department is conducting because they haven’t discovered anything useful yet so I decided to ask a few questions of my own.”

  She didn’t acknowledge the greeting, only closed her eyes and sighed, sending a strong puff of alcohol laced breath that flooded the air between us.

  Oh, great, she’s drunk. “You are the woman Baxter Dunn met here the night he died, aren’t you?”

  She tilted her head to one side as if the weight made it impossible to hold it straight. It appeared that she started to say something, but it turned out she’d opened her mouth to beckon her drink. Fumbling with a half empty glass, she finally managed to find her mouth and wash down a couple of gulps. When she set the glass on the table, liquid sloshed out.

  She’d obviously had enough. I struggled with a desire to slide the glass out of reach. “Do you remember Baxter Dunn?”

  I think she nodded. But it could have been that heavy head thing again.

  “You do?”

  Like an elevator descending, she lowered her forehead until it banged on the table. A noise accompanied the bang, perhaps a groan.

  “Did you say something?” I bent closer. “No? Well, do you think you could tell me your name then?”

  She rolled her head over where I could see part of her face. The lips moved, but sound didn’t come out. Not anything I heard anyway. I leaned in and pushed a clump of hair off her forehead. “Say it again, dear. Your name.”

  After a few seconds, the word came out hoarsely, just above a gravelly whisper. “Mary.”

  I clapped my hands. “There we go. Good start. What’s the rest of your name, Mary?”

  Would it help to play charades with her? Second word. Sounds like…

  “Wilson.”

  “Great. Thank you.” I laid my hand on her arm and patted firmly, hoping to keep her awake long enough to answer a couple more questions. Impatience nibbled at my gut. Maybe I should slap her instead. “Now, Mary Wilson, did you meet here with Baxter Dunn about four weeks ago, the night he got killed?”

  She perked up, as if a shot of caffeine just kicked in. “Basker... the cop?”

  I ignored the slurred misrepresentation of Baxter’s name. “Right. The deputy sheriff. You met him here, remember?”

  She peered over one shoulder at the men seated around the bar. They carried on, laughing loudly and glancing our way. My fumbling attempt to interview this drunken woman had obviously given them cause for hilarity.

  Her head wobbled like a newborns when she turned toward me. “Can’t tell you that. It’s a secret. Shh!” She tried to put one finger to her mouth when she shushed. Lacking coordination, the finger missed her mouth by at least an inch.

  This wasn’t going well. A long sigh leaked from my lips. “Could you give me your address, Mary? Maybe I could come see you in the daytime after you’re feeling better. Would that be okay?”

  I pulled out paper and pen from my purse. With further coaxing, I managed to drag out what I thought must be an address. I told her I’d stop by one afternoon.

  Mary’s head lolled on the table, eyes fixed and glassy. I wanted to gather her up like a sleeping child and tuck her into my safe warm guest room to sleep it off. Although she was a small person, chances were good that I couldn’t lift her. The main problem was that I’d be hefting dead weight.

  I flicked a glance at the other bar patrons. No one looked friendly enough to help. I would have to leave her, so I collected what little composure I still retained and beat a hasty retreat.

  My wild foray into the black leather world of biker bars left me a bit unnerved. So much so that I didn’t venture out again all weekend, except to go to church on Sunday. Sitting in the pew, I debated the necessity of repenting my trip to the bar and decided to ignore the nagging voice of my inner mother.

  I greeted Jesse with long hugs and deep appreciation when he returned on Sunday evening. Thankfully, he didn’t verbalize questions about my weekend activities. I caught a look now and then that told me he’d like to ask, but perhaps he was afraid to hear the answers.

  The time for Monday afternoon’s meeting with Deputy Colter came at last. Jesse needed
medical tests at the hospital, so I dropped him off and continued to the sheriff’s office alone. Unsuccessful at keeping anxiety at bay, I arrived a full ten minutes early and sat in the waiting area, fiddling with my hands. At last, the door opened and Deputy Colter stuck his head out, glaring at me.

  “Mrs. Sterling?”

  I stood.

  “This way, please.”

  I followed him through a busy area that confirmed my idea of what dispatch central must look like and came to a long hallway with doors on either side. Deputy Colter opened one. I entered to find a conference table with eight comfortable chairs around it. I seated myself while Deputy Colter closed the door. He stood near the table, arms crossed over his chest, obviously encouraging a short meeting.

  Before he spoke, he took out a large white handkerchief and polished the star badge pinned above his pocket as if to establish his authority. He still wasn’t smiling. “Okay. Here we are. What can I do for you today?”

  I pulled my list of questions from my purse and shook out the folded yellow legal paper dramatically, hoping to lighten the mood. “I just have a few questions.”

  His dark expression didn’t budge.

  Humor wouldn’t get me anywhere, apparently. I drew in a whopping breath and exhaled before reverting to my helpless woman routine again. “Thank you so much for taking time to meet with me, Deputy. I’ve been trying to understand this senseless murder, but I just get more and more confused. You know so much about these things. Can you help me sort it all out, please?” I batted my eyelids slightly.

  He squinted over his prodigious nose, as if trying to assess my degree of levity. “C-O-D has not been officially ascertained yet, so Dunn’s death has not designated a homicide. And, as I told you before, I cannot reveal any specific details of the investigation.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, certainly. But you have already mentioned some things to us and those are the things I want help deciphering.”

  “Like what precisely?”

  “You said Baxter chased the man in the black van to the area of the Star Mine where the man exited his van and ran. Baxter followed him to the top of that hill above the mine dump. They struggled and Baxter fell into the ravine.”