“Not at all, Sid. In fact, your shrimp appear to be the highlight of my Freezer Day. I hope your truck breaks down every time you haul shrimp through Blight.”
“Actually, I had another truck come up from Boise to haul out the halibut and salmon. I decided to hold back the shrimp, though, after I saw a poster about your Freezer Day. I’ve been a big fan of your painting for years.”
“Really?”
“Yes, indeed. I have four of your watercolors hanging in my restaurant and two more on the walls at home.”
“Six of my watercolors! You’re obviously rich.”
“I am rich, but I got your watercolors back when they were still cheap.”
Tully smiled and sampled a shrimp. “They sold a lot better when they were cheap. Sid, these shrimp are delicious. You can come to my Freezer Day anytime.”
“You’re a terrific artist, Bo. I bought all the paintings from Jean Runyan’s gallery in Spokane. Jean’s been talking you up for years. Wants to put on a one-man show for you.”
“It’s a pretty small gallery, but I would love a show.”
“She says she would try to put it in the mezzanine of the Davenport Hotel.”
“Wow, the Davenport. That’s pretty classy.”
“You bet it’s classy. And she wants the loan of my paintings along with whatever you have or can collect.”
Tully held out his plate for shrimp. Sid heaped it full. Tully picked up one and ate it. He smacked his lips. “You’re definitely an artist with shrimp, Sid.”
“I love any kind of art. I had it all to do over again, I’d try to be an artist. I think being an artist is the best kind of life there is.”
“Yeah, it beats chasing criminals, I can tell you that. Right now I’ve got a criminal chasing me, which is even worse.”
“I heard about that homicidal maniac,” Sid said. “I guess just about everyone around here has.” He pointed at a painting on Tully’s living-room wall. “Say, I don’t suppose you’d sell me that big oil of the girl coming through the door with a bouquet of wildflowers.”
Tully turned and looked at the painting. “Naw, afraid not. That’s my wife.”
“She’s beautiful. I’d love to meet her. I had no idea you were married.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of a problem. I have the feeling I’m still married to Ginger, but she died ten years ago. Foolish, huh?”
“I don’t know. I kind of like the idea.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Tully said. “I still date other women.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“No doubt. Everybody hears that. It’s mostly because of my mother. She’s Gossip Central in Blight City. Anyway, I did that painting of Ginger just a couple of years ago. Did it from memory. I retained the image of Ginger coming through the door with the bouquet of wildflowers all that time, right down to the last detail.”
He picked up another plate and asked Sid to fill it with shrimp. “I got kind of an invalid up in the studio. I better take him up some shrimp, before he starts raising a fuss.”
Deputy Brian Pugh was sweeping the spotting scope back and forth, studying the tree line on top of the ridge.
“Heard me coming up the stairs, huh, Pugh?”
“You know me, Bo, nothing if not vigilant. I was starting to wonder when you might get up here with some of that shrimp. The aroma has been driving me crazy.” He picked up a shrimp by the tail, munched it, and then moaned with pleasure. “You can have me watch your back anytime.”
“I plan to,” Tully said. “I don’t suppose you’ve put the scope on any pretty ladies.”
“Like a blonde in a tiny white dress? No, sir, I’ve been focused entirely on bad guys with rifles sneaking through the woods.”
“Yeah, right. Speaking of bad guys, I don’t like the idea of being used as bait for Lucas Kincaid.”
“Hey, it was your idea, Bo.”
“Yeah. Not one of my better ones though. I’m a sitting duck here in town. I think we’d better move our operation to the mountains.”
“You’re the boss. But the mountains are home for Kincaid. I think he will be a lot tougher to nail up there.”
“Yeah, well, you’ll be happy to know that I’m going to take off a week and go camping up north with Pap.” He studied his deputy’s face. “Your expression tells me you think I’m afraid of Lucas Kincaid. Listen, Brian, I’ve had a lot smarter men than Lucas try to kill me and they’re all either dead or in prison. So I don’t want you or any of the other deputies to think I’m running off because of Kincaid.”
“How about a tiny white dress?”
“That’s a different matter.”
Pugh stretched and yawned. He turned and stared up at the tree line. “I don’t suppose you want to let me know where you’re camping?”
“I was going to bring that up. It’s that old campsite on Deadman Creek. You know the one. There used to be horse-packing operations out of there, and part of the old corral is still standing.”
“That the one with a ridge above it?”
“Yeah, you can see the ridge from the camp and the camp from the ridge. Otherwise the trees are pretty thick around it. It’s terrific deer hunting, but you have to be able to shoot quick. I nailed a deer up on the ridge from the camp, though. Good elk hunting, too. There’s some clear country higher up and lots of times you can even get a rest for a long shot.”
“I’ll give it a try sometime.”
“Do that.”
Tully returned to the porch to find his bulky deputy Buck Toole talking to the local Catholic priest, Father James Flynn, who was sitting in Tully’s rocker. Clarence was baring his teeth at the priest. “Make yourself at home, Flynn,” Tully said. “And don’t mind Clarence. He’s a Protestant.”
“You showed up just in time, Bo,” the priest said. “I made the mistake of complimenting Buck on his scars, and I think he’s about to take off his shirt to show me some more.”
Two years before, Buck had spent several weeks in the hospital recovering from gunshot wounds. Tully was fairly sure the shots had been meant for him, not Buck. They both had been driving red sheriff’s department Ford Explorers. He said, “Forget the body scars, Buck. The only worthwhile scars are those on your face, and you have a couple of nice ones. Make him far handsomer than he was before, don’t you think, Flynn?”
“That’s hard to imagine.”
“I know. He’s still ugly as sin but at least the scars give him some character.”
“Thanks,” the deputy said. “It’s nice to be appreciated.”
Pap strolled up. “I’ve got a lot more impressive scars than Buck.” He started to unbutton his shirt.
Tully said, “I just explained scars don’t amount to much if you’ve got to unbutton your shirt every time you want to show them off. What happened, Padre—this was back in the sixties—three bad guys were holed up behind a pile of logs. The other law-enforcement guys were using common sense and waiting them out. Pap showed up, walked over the log pile, and killed all three of them with a pump shotgun, but not before they put a few bullets in him. He later got a medal from the governor for stupidity beyond the call of reason.”
“Heroism!” Pap corrected. After pointing out the little pucker marks from the bullets, he buttoned his shirt back up.
“Very impressive,” the priest said.
“Don’t encourage him, Flynn,” Tully said. “By the way, you make a contribution to my Freezer Day?”
“You bet. The toughest elk meat ever visited upon the folks of Blight County.”
“I told you not to shoot, but would you listen? No.”
“I never listen to a heathen when it comes to shooting the biggest elk I’ve ever seen,” the priest said. “Speaking of hunting, I hope your friends are taking good care of the birds on their ranch.”
“I assume you are talking about Quail Creek Ranch. You’re just lucky, Flynn, that you get to associate with a person dearly beloved by the owners of that property. As a matter of fact,
they put in a new guzzler for the birds up in the high country.”
“Guzzler?” said the priest. “What’s a guzzler?”
“It’s a big tub-like thing that catches rainwater and stores it for the birds. Guzzlers are one reason Quail Creek Ranch provides fantastic bird hunting over several thousand acres. They’ve got three or four scattered around.”
“The quail have a creek to drink from.”
“Not in the high country. It’s very dry up where the chukars hang out.”
“Those are two of the orneriest old women in the country,” Pap said. “But they do love Bo.”
“Hey, don’t talk about my friends that way,” Tully said.
“It’s just that all the ladies love Bo,” Pap said.
“You still dating the medical examiner?” Flynn asked.
“On-again, off-again.”
“I ain’t touching that one,” Buck said.
“Me, neither,” said Pap. “Not with the padre sitting here.”
Tully chose not to mention that Susan Parker had tired of him and taken up with an airline pilot.
Just then a freckled kid in bib overalls came by. He was gnawing on a rib. He stopped and looked at Clarence. “That your dog, Bo?”
“I guess.”
“Can I pet him?”
“If you want to, Richy. Matter of fact, I’ll give him to you.”
Richy walked up on the porch and over to Clarence. “Dang! He tried to bite me, Bo! I don’t want no dog that bites!”
“I figured you might be picky,” Tully said. “If you know some fellows don’t mind a minor flaw in a dog, send them over to me, okay, Richy?”
The kid stomped off.
Tully stretched and yawned. “Well, it’s getting to be a long day, guys. I better let you folks hold down the porch here, while I stop by the office and wake up my skeleton crew. Buck, I got Pugh up in the studio, probably napping. Tell him he might as well go home.”
“I bet you got him on the lookout for Kincaid,” Buck said. “Shucks, old Lucas would be crazy, try to kill you.”
“He is crazy, Buck.”
2
TULLY SAVORED THE sound his three-thousand-dollar alligator-skin boots made on the marble-chip floor of the courthouse—clok, clok, clok, clok. Any kind of cowboy boots would make a similar sound, but there was something expensive about the clok of these boots. The money had come from the sale of his latest watercolor, and that, too, made the boots special. He was getting closer every day to becoming a full-time artist. It couldn’t be soon enough.
“Everybody snap to!” he shouted as he walked into the sheriff’s department briefing room. “The boss is here!”
Three pairs of sullen eyes turned toward him. “You better have brought us food from your Freezer Day,” growled Herb Elliot, his pudgy undersheriff.
“Yeah,” agreed his Crime Scene Investigations unit, Byron “Lurch” Proctor, who almost never agreed with Herb Elliot about anything. Tully had given Lurch his nickname. If Lurch wasn’t the homeliest person on the planet, he was at least a contender. His dull brown hair stood out in all directions. He wore rimless glasses an inch thick. His nose appeared to have been attached as an afterthought, and had been intended for a much larger person. He was also the smartest person Tully had ever known. One whole corner of the briefing room was Lurch’s domain, and he was there most hours of the day or night. Tully didn’t hold him to a regular schedule, which allowed Lurch the freedom to work almost around the clock. The CSI unit appreciated the flexibility. The sheriff, oddly, was the young man’s hero.
“And the food better be something good!” said Daisy Quinn, her hands planted firmly on her hips. Daisy was his secretary. Tully was sure she had been in love with him for a long time. Well, of course. She was a woman, wasn’t she? Usually, Daisy fairly vibrated with efficiency, but today she seemed only to vibrate.
“We’re starving!” she cried, a wisp of her short dark hair bobbing about on top of her head. She was wearing her tight black skirt and a white blouse, a combination Tully thought made her particularly alluring. Herb Elliot and he had often flirted with Daisy when she was married, but now that she was divorced they both regarded her as somewhat dangerous. It had been months since he had caught Herb perched on the edge of her desk, chatting her up.
“So where’s the food?” Herb said.
“It’s coming, it’s coming. Hold your horses. I’ve got Buck bringing you each a venison rib. Fortunately, there were four left over.”
“He comes through that door with only four venison ribs,” Daisy growled, “he’s a dead man.”
“I figured as much. That’s why I got Buck to bring them.”
Buck staggered in with a huge, greasy cardboard box. “I could have used a little help, Bo.”
“Yeah, yeah, quit complaining, Buck. We’ve got some starving people here, although you wouldn’t know it from looking at Herb.”
“Oh!” cried Daisy. “Do I smell garlic shrimp? I do, I do. Oh, all is forgiven!”
Buck spread the feast out on a table. The whole briefing room filled with the smell of garlic.
“Go get the beer, Buck,” Tully said.
“Geez, let me catch my breath!”
“Only two bottles apiece. They’re still on duty.”
“Only two?” Herb said.
“Yeah,” Tully said. “It’s the Blight Way. Lock the door when you come back, Buck. I don’t want any citizens to walk in and catch the staff gnawing ribs and guzzling beer. And tell Flo the feast is about to begin.”
“I know already, Bo,” Flo said, emerging from the radio room. Her crowning feature was her bright red hair, which seemed almost to have achieved illumination. “By the way, what if there’s an emergency?”
“I guess it will just have to wait,” Tully said. “We have serious eating and drinking going on here.”
Tully walked into his glass-enclosed cubicle. The large window behind his desk looked out over Lake Blight. He was once again thinking about having the window painted over. Because any shooter taking a crack at him in his office chair would have to be bouncing around in a boat a hundred yards out on Lake Blight, only a miracle shot could nail him. But miracle shots were made all the time. On the other hand, he wasn’t about to let Lucas Kincaid take away his view. Still, Lucas Kincaid was the kind of nut for whom miracle shots were routine. Tully would have to think about getting his window painted over. He dialed his phone. A woman answered.
“Agatha, it’s Bo.”
“Oh, Bo, how nice of you to call. What’s the occasion? I know it’s still three months ’til quail season.”
“The urge just came over me, Agatha.”
“She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
“Prettiest bait I’ve ever come across.”
“Bait? Surely, Bo, you don’t think I sent Bunny down to Blight as some kind of incentive to lure you up here to the ranch.”
“You pick out the tiny white dress?”
“Well, yes, but . . .”
“I thought so. You’re a wicked woman, Agatha.”
“Tell me this, Bo. Did it work?”
“You bet. I should be up there sometime tomorrow. Probably bring Pap and Dave with me.” He leaned back in his chair, swung his legs around, and planted his boots on the desk.
“Must you bring that nasty man?”
“What have you got against Dave?”
“You know the one I mean. But anything to get you up here, Bo, is fine with Bernice and me.”
“How is Bernice by the way?”
“Oh, she’s welding up a storm. Wait until you see what she has done with the front gate. It’s gorgeous! And she is so proud of your success as a painter, Bo.”
“She taught me everything I know about painting. I suppose she misses all her wonderful students in the U. of I. Art Department.”
“Let me say that you are one of the few she mentions, at least without the use of profanity.”
“So, Agatha, tell me about this mystery you
want me to solve.”
“Oh, it’s just the foolishness of an old lady, but I’ve wondered about it all my life.”
Agatha said she could not remember her father because she had been only two when he disappeared along with Sean O’Boyle, who was about fourteen at the time. There was little doubt both of them had been murdered, she said, because Tom Link simply wasn’t the kind of man to run off and deliberately disappear, at least according to Agatha’s mother. All summer, he and O’Boyle had been panning some bits of gold from a creek running down out of the Snowies. Some of the gold still clung to white chunks of quartz, and they thought that it was a good sign it had eroded out of an outcropping somewhere up the creek. They started exploring up along the sides of the drainage and found the outcropping, according to the story Agatha’s mother had told her. As they blasted back into the mountain, the vein of gold grew bigger. Tom Link had become increasingly excited about the find and was planning to file a claim. Then, suddenly, he and young O’Boyle disappeared. No trace of them or their mine had ever been found, as far as Agatha knew. Most people thought the mine had simply caved in on them, if there was a mine at all. In those days, it was not unusual for people to disappear in the Snowy Mountains and never be heard from again.
“So, that’s the story,” Agatha said. “I know it’s not much to go on, and I also know I shouldn’t be wasting your time on such foolishness.”
“Actually, Agatha, I’ve been thinking about taking a week or so vacation and camping out in the mountains for a while with Pap and Dave. What better time to look around and see if we can find some clues to the disappearance of your dad and the boy.”
“That would be wonderful, Bo! You can probably use a little vacation. And maybe it will give you a chance to hide out from that monster, Lucas Kincaid.”
Tully rolled his eyes and sighed.
“Bernice is so looking forward to seeing you, Bo. Bunny too. We mustn’t forget Bunny.”
No indeed, Tully thought. “Got to go, Agatha, but I’ll probably see you tomorrow.” He hung up and walked out to the briefing room. “Daisy, as soon as you’re done wolfing down that shrimp, get your pad and come in here.”
The Double-Jack Murders: A Sheriff Bo Tully Mystery (Sheriff Bo Tully Mysteries) Page 2