by Sue Henry
Surprised and puzzled, Jessie watched as Holman
unlocked the door and went in, but her startled attention was focused on his companion, Hank Peterson, who followed him in and closed the door.
What was he doing with Holman? How did they
know each other? And how was she going to be able to find out?
She pulled away and headed back toward Wasilla,
afraid they would notice her watching from across the street. Seeing Peterson with Holman had been so completely unexpected that it shook her resolve to talk to Holman again. Though she had defended Peterson to Tatum, she realized that she actually knew very little about him except that he did construction and had been a regular at Oscar’s Other Place. Was Peterson somehow involved? Other than playing pool with her, who did he hang with? Could he have known Greg Holman ten years ago? Did it matter? If he had known Greg, it might be helpful to find out more about him. But who could she ask without it getting back to him?
Oscar, of course. If he didn’t know Peterson, he would at least know who did.
She headed for Oscar’s in-town place.
*
*
*
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In the middle of the afternoon the pub was between busy spells. Only a few of the tall stools at the long bar were filled when Jessie walked in and stood blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Oscar leaned against a cooler, talking to a customer at the far end of the bar. He waved a hand as she took a seat at the bar and walked toward her with a smile.
“Where’s your four-legged friend? I’ve got jerky going to waste here.”
“I left him to CEO the kennel while I’m gone.”
“Well, I’ll give you some to take home to him.”
“And make the rest jealous? You’re a real pal, Oscar.”
He laughed, but handed her the jerky anyway.
“What can I get you?”
Jessie stuffed it in her pocket. “The usual, I guess.”
“You bet.” He fished a Killian’s out of a cooler and opened it for her. “What you up to, Jessie?”
“Not much. Just thought I’d stop by and see how things were going with your plans for a new Other Place.”
“Hey, that’s not a bad name: Oscar’s New Other
Place. Actually plans’re going pretty good. Soon as it warms up a little more and the insurance check comes through, we can break ground—next month, I hope, but it could be early May.”
“Great. You should have lots of help. Everybody out our way misses the place.”
“Yeah, well—me, too. You going to rebuild your
cabin?”
“I’m not sure yet what I’m going to do. Even with the insurance, it would cost a lot.”
“You should. That was a nice place and you owned it clear, right? Be deductible as a loss, wouldn’t it?”
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Jessie had no idea, but thought it was an odd comment and that he had his facts confused in terms of the IRS.
“Maybe, but I’ll have to think about it and find out.
Have they found out any more about who burned the Other Place?”
“Not that they’ve told me—but I guess they
wouldn’t, would they? They found out who the guy was that died, though. Did you hear?”
“A Robert Martin. I didn’t know him.”
“Buzz Martin. They called him Buzz, an airplane mechanic from Talkeetna that—” He stopped short at the startled expression on Jessie’s face. “What’s the matter? You do know him?”
She closed her gaping mouth and shook her head,
“No, but . . . Buzz?” How many Buzzes could there be in one small area? Could it really be the Buzz? “Did he used to work in a garage for a guy named Cal Mulligan at Big Lake?”
“I think so. Somebody said he switched to planes after—o-oh, I see what you mean—Mulligan’s fire.
Shit, Jessie. Are they related?”
The idea was astonishing. Could this Buzz have
really been an intended victim and, therefore, the reason behind the burning of the Other Place? Was it even the same guy? Or, with arson in his background, was he responsible? If he was the pub arsonist, caught in his own handiwork, then the fire at Mulligan’s double-wide and Jessie’s fire could not have been set by him.
“I don’t know,” Jessie told Oscar, trying to get her mind around this new insight.
“Well, I guess it would be good to tell somebody
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about the connection—but I’m not talking to that Tatum guy again voluntarily. He’s a rare bastard.”
Jessie had to smile at his vehemence. “You noticed. I’d never have guessed how you really felt about him, Oscar.”
Then they were both laughing and the tension broke.
“Thank God most of my customers are just regular people with a beer or two on their minds,” Oscar said.
“You should have one of those pins Bill Spear designed. You know, ‘The night my drink caught fire,’ ”
Jessie told him, still grinning.
“Somebody already thought of it and brought me
one,” he said, finding it in the cash register drawer and tossing it on the bar—a square enameled pin that showed a glass filled with ice and liquid, with colorful flames blazing from the top. “Seems appropriate.”
She agreed, then took the opportunity to lead the subject in the desired direction. “Hank Peterson been around? Thought I might shoot a little pool.”
“Nope. Hasn’t been in yet today, but he sometimes doesn’t show up till after dinner.”
“He’s a pretty regular sort of person.”
“Sure worked hard trying to save the Other Place.
Hadn’t been for him, I’d have had an even ruder shock on my way home that night. Might have found the
place burning down all by itself.”
“He came to help put out my fire, too. Was he born here, or is he an import, like most of us?”
“Born right here in the MatSu Valley, like me. Lived here all his life.”
“You and he must know just about everybody.”
“Pretty much, I guess. Except for a lot of new
people.”
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“You ever meet a big guy named Holman? Greg
Holman?”
“That mountain man from out the road, who sur-
prised everybody and married Marty Gifford all of a sudden, then moved back to the hills?”
“That’s the one.”
“Kind of an odd pair, I thought. He was so straight and she was such a party girl. He stopped in here a couple of nights ago—had one beer and left.”
“Really. Did Marty ever party with Hank?”
“Not that I knew, but it wouldn’t surprise me. She was pretty wild, but that’s been years ago.”
Ten years to be exact, Jessie thought. “Has Hank always been in construction?”
“Yup. Started working with his dad when he was
just a pup. Took over when the old man died—and that was no loss. Old Henry Peterson was another real son of a bitch. He beat that kid black and blue till they finally put him in a foster home. About killed his old lady.”
“Any brothers and sisters?”
“An older brother who took off the minute he turned eighteen and never came back. But don’t mention it to Hank. He’s real sensitive about that brother.”
She thought for a minute before asking, “Was Hank ever in any kind of trouble?”
Oscar looked at her and frowned. “Why’re you asking, Jessie? Just take him as he is. He’s an okay guy.
You interested?”
She could see that it might appear so and that any more questions would pigeonhole her interest in
Oscar’s mental file.
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“Naw.” She made herself g
rin. “Just curious. He’s a friend—good pool player—that’s all.” Draining the Killian’s, she slid back the bottle and nodded at the questioning raise of his eyebrows. The distraction of opening her another beer wouldn’t hurt.
As he set the fresh bottle in front of her, the door opened to let in three young men, who headed for the pool table, drawing Oscar away to take their order for a pitcher of draft. Relieved, Jessie sat nursing her second beer and thinking over what she had learned.
It didn’t seem to bring her any closer to locating Anne, but it raised a few more questions in her mind about Hank Peterson without telling her anything that might link him to Greg Holman. Everywhere she
turned there seemed to be connections. It was hard to decide what was relevant and what was not. People who lived in small communities for long periods of time were connected in numerous ways—everybody seemed to know everybody else and what they did.
None of the associations she had found so far might be important—or they all might.
She would particularly like to know what Peterson had been doing with Greg Holman today, but saw no way to find out, short of asking one of them. Maybe it was something to turn over to MacDonald. The connection between Cal Mulligan and Buzz Martin certainly was.
As she considered, the door opened again. She
glanced over to find MacDonald coming through it, and felt she had conjured him. Close behind him was Hank Peterson and they were evidently continuing an involved conversation, for neither of them looked
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around enough to notice her sitting there at the bar but headed for a table toward the back of the room, sat down, and leaned toward each other, still intent on their discussion.
Was there anyone Hank wasn’t following through
doors this afternoon? What the hell was he talking about so seriously with MacDonald? Holman?
For a few minutes, Jessie watched them in the mirror behind the bar as they gestured, appeared to agree on some things, and disagree on others. As Oscar delivered beer to their table and took a bill back to the cash register to make change, she realized that if they hadn’t seen her, they soon would. This meeting puzzled her less than that of Peterson and Holman, for MacDonald was investigating the fires, after all, and might have a reason for wanting to talk with Hank.
But, wanting time to think over what she had learned, Jessie decided she’d rather not be noticed.
Leaving the price of her two beers and a tip next to the half-empty Killian’s, she quietly slipped out the door and, leaving them to their discussion, headed for home. It was time to feed her dogs anyway, and she could call later and leave a message for MacDonald that she wanted to see him. She couldn’t know just then quite how much she’d regret passing up the opportunity to talk to him.
18
Q
THE DOG Y
,
ARD TENT, AND SHEDS LOOKED JUST AS SHE
had left them, when Jessie arrived back at her place on Knik Road. But Tank came to greet her and seemed nervous, moving back and forth between her and as far as he could go toward the storage shed, leaning against the restriction of his tether.
“What’s the matter, guy?”
She unclipped his collar from the line and let him loose. Immediately, he trotted to the front of the shed and sniffed the ground. Following, she looked to see what he was examining with such interest.
With everyone who had walked through her yard in the last few days, it was almost impossible to separate footprints from each other in the snow and on the ground, but on the edge of one muddy puddle were two prints that partially covered those she herself had made earlier that morning getting equipment from the shed for the training run. Looking carefully, she saw that they also appeared in the snow around the front of the shed and seemed to come and go from tire tracks of a 215
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vehicle that had pulled into the drive and parked.
Someone had evidently checked to see if the shed was open and found it locked, but had not broken in this time. Could it have been the same person who left the gym bag with its incriminating contents?
As she rubbed Tank’s ears and told him what a good dog he was to let her know that someone had been there in her absence, the sound of a vehicle in the drive caught her attention and she turned to find Phil Becker pulling to a stop beside the tent.
“Hey,” he said, coming across to where she stood and bending to drop a friendly hand on Tank’s head. “I stopped by earlier. It looked like all your dogs were here, so I figured you weren’t out on a training run.”
“Did that earlier. I was in town. When you were
here, did you walk across to the shed?”
“Yeah—checked to be sure it was secure. How’d
you know?”
“You’ve got big feet, Phil.”
He grinned. “That’s true. You’re keeping a close watch. That’s good.”
“I had help. Tank led me right to your tracks.”
“So much for stealth in a dog yard.”
“Well, he’s sharper than most. Was there something you needed, Phil, or are you guys just keeping an eye on me?”
“Ah—yeah—little of both, I guess. Have you seen
Tatum any time today?”
“No. And I’d better not. Why? Have you lost him?”
“Well, sort of. He was supposed to come in for a briefing at noon, but he didn’t show. Mac and I were just wondering where he’d got to—and what he’s doing.”
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“Probably cooking up something else for me, or
hunting Anne.”
“Maybe. But he doesn’t usually just ignore meetings he’s set up.”
“Well, wherever he is, I haven’t seen him. Listen, Phil, I’m puzzled by a couple of things that have nothing to do with Tatum. Come on in and I’ll tell you about it.”
As soon as they were comfortably seated at the card table, each with a bottle of Killian’s, Jessie began her questions.
“How well do you know MacDonald?”
“Oh, come on, Jessie. You’re not having trouble with him now, are you?”
“No—no. He’s fine. I like him. Just wondered about him, that’s all.”
“Okay,” Becker nodded, plainly relieved. “I know him casually, I guess. We don’t have as many fires out here as they do in Anchorage, so I’ve only worked with him once or twice. He moved up from Juneau five or six years ago. He’s a likable sort—seems good at his job. Don’t know much more, because we don’t socialize much with the fire department people. They stick pretty much together—you know. Why?”
“I just wondered if he was from MatSu.”
“You know, I think he might be. Seems like I remember someone saying he went to high school here.”
“So he would know some of the people involved in this case?”
“Like who?”
“Hank Peterson?”
Becker thought for a minute before answering.
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“Yeah, he’d probably know Hank. Everybody knows
Hank, don’t they?”
“Do they?”
“Well, yeah. He’s done a lot of odd jobs around the Palmer-Wasilla area—construction, snow plowing—
dug a lot of holes with that backhoe of his.”
It reinforced what Jessie had learned earlier from Oscar.
“Does everyone know MacDonald, too?”
“Not so many, because he left—went away to col-
lege and didn’t come back until he was already working arson investigation. He’s in Anchorage now,
anyway, not out here.”
“How about Greg Holman?”
“You mean does everyone know him, or does he
know MacDonald?”
She hesitated, considering. “Both—either.”
“He wasn’t raised here—didn’t live here—so n
ot
very many people knew him. But lots of them—at least the ones that spent any time in the local bars—knew his wife, your friend Anne. She was in and out of several of them pretty steady before she married Holman, from what MacDonald says.”
“I really need to talk to MacDonald, Phil,” she told him, frowning in frustration. “There are things that just don’t make sense in all of this. But there are things that keep connecting it together, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for instance, I went looking for Greg Holman this afternoon. When I found where he was staying, I saw him and Hank Peterson together. Then, later, at Oscar’s place in town, Hank came in with MacDonald
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and they seemed to be having a serious conversation about something.”
“Maybe Mac was interviewing Peterson about the
fire at the Other Place.”
“Possibly—but it seemed different than that. They seemed to be discussing something like they were trying to figure it out. I don’t know. I’m probably imagining things. But I’d sure like to know what Hank was doing with Greg Holman—and with MacDonald. Will
you tell Mac I’d like to see him? I’m taking a team for an early training run and have to make a trip to town, but I’ll be here for two or three hours around noon.”
“Sure. You’re probably imagining a lot, Jessie. Mac has been working a lot of hours on these fires. He’s likely to show up with anyone who could be the least bit connected. I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you.
He’s okay.”
But though she knew he believed what he had told her, something about his reassurances didn’t sit comfortably in Jessie’s mind. Something she couldn’t get hold of nagged, and she couldn’t seem to let it go. She kept turning over the disjointed situations that seemed related in ways she couldn’t understand as she went about her evening kennel work, scrambled some eggs with bacon for dinner, and finally went to bed early, tired with concerns and speculations, determined to try another angle the next day and see if she could learn more about how and where Anne Holman had disappeared. She had to be somewhere and, if Jessie could find her, perhaps she could put a few of the confusing pieces together in a pattern that would make more sense.
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Coming home from Oscar’s, she had turned into her driveway and stopped to look back along Knik Road, wondering how Anne had disappeared so quickly and completely on such an empty road late at night. She must have somehow found a ride into town with someone who either didn’t notice the fire in its early stages or who didn’t want to be involved. She couldn’t have walked far without being noticed by someone, and none of the people Jessie had asked in a few phone calls remembered passing anyone headed for town on foot rather than toward the cabin fire. Another alternative was that someone expected Anne to show up and was waiting for her in a vehicle, whether she knew it or not.