Murderers Creek (Maggie Blackthorne Book 2)
Page 8
“That’s right.”
Before he took off for Bend, I let Bach know I planned to drop by Sugar Muldaur’s place. He agreed the discovery of a knife designed for butchering wild game made the nearby location of a hunting retreat more interesting, but he also admonished me not to enter the property unless the gate was open.
My second search of the grounds at Murderers Creek Guard Station resulted in nothing new. Afterward, I was anxious to get on my way but waited until Evie Kwan and the young men she supervised exited the cabin, cleaning supplies in hand.
“It was nice to meet you.” I shook hands with each. “Where are you all stationed?”
“Prineville,” Evie noted. Her team moved to the Ram truck and began loading supplies, garbage, and the vault toilet’s drum privy in the back.
“Maybe we’ll run into each other out here again sometime.”
She glanced at my name tag. “Maybe, Sergeant Blackthorne.”
“You’re welcome to call me Maggie.”
“I really hope you find out who murdered that officer, Maggie.”
“I’m sure we will.”
I decided to pay another visit to Janine Harbaugh on the chance she might have some info about Muldaur. As I drove toward Aldrich Mountain Fire Lookout, the steep pitch of the climb struck me again. Although it made sense, given the purpose of such a structure was to build it at a high enough elevation to ensure smoke detection from some distance away.
I had contacted Janine to let her know I was on my way back to her place for a chat. She was cheerful, indicating she’d be happy for the company, and even offered to put on a pot of coffee. When I arrived, the scent of fresh java was overwhelming and welcome. It had been a long morning.
We sat in a couple of wooden folding chairs, sipped our drinks, and shot the breeze for a few minutes.
“Do you ever get tired of being out here?” I asked her.
“Never.” She swept an arm to call out the observation deck’s bank of windows and the expansive view of the surrounding terrain and beyond. “I mean, look at that.”
In every direction, the dazzling world. The jagged Aldrich range extended south and west, abutting the Ochoco Mountains, along with forest, rangeland, and an immense swath of jade and crimson fossil-rich karst. To the north, the indigo-hued Blue Mountains circled east and southeast to the Strawberry range. Farther south in the distance, a tawny belt of high desert, and beyond that, the Great Basin commenced. To the north and west, the towering Cascades split Oregon into distinct ecologic zones.
“Stunning,” I exclaimed.
“Makes you believe in God, right?”
“It could.” Many other goings-on here on Earth, not so much. “How many summers have you volunteered up here?”
“This is my tenth year.”
“I might think about volunteering at a fire watch someday.”
Janine angled her head as though inspecting me. She was a hefty gal, but she had a nice way of carrying her weight so as to appear fit and muscular, probably because she was both of those things. Healthy as a horse, to use an archaic expression.
“But that’s not what you came to ask me about, is it, Maggie? This is your second day in a row out here. Don’t believe I’m usually on your patrol route.”
“There’s a guy from Condon with a plot of private land up here. Uses it as a hunting camp-slash-retreat. Rents out a trailer house there, too.”
“You mean Sugar Muldaur?”
It didn’t surprise me she knew the man. Anyone spending their summers atop a mountain and in possession of a handy-dandy fire finder might know, or have viewed from afar, all kinds of things. And then there was Janine’s caretaker nature, which included a healthy curiosity about strangers and a nose for other people’s business.
“That’s him. What can you tell me about him?”
“Well, far be it from me to cast aspersions on someone’s appearance, but the guy is kind of slovenly, I’d say. And he has an odd way of phrasing things. Seems harmless enough, though. Couldn’t say the same for his German shepherd.”
“So you’ve talked to him in person?”
“Yeah. He came by to introduce himself, day before yesterday, I guess it was.”
“Can you see his place from here?”
“Nah. It’s hidden by topography and trees.”
“But it’s up Road 2170,” I put in. “Same dirt track those drug dealers took to their deaths yesterday, assuming you heard about that.”
“Of course I heard about it. The thieves that stole Dave Shannon’s truck, right?”
Car theft was a crime Janine appeared to care more about than dealing OxyContin.
“I’m curious,” I began. “Was Mr. Muldaur planning to stay at his camp for a while?”
“I’ve got no idea, Maggie. He didn’t update me on his plans.”
It was hard to tell if I had just insulted Janine by inferring she had kept tabs on Muldaur somehow. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if she actually had.
“He did leave me the combination to the padlock on his gate,” she revealed. “Just in case I notice smoke anywhere near his property.”
For a moment, my thoughts skimmed past the notion of Detective Alan Bach’s disapproval of all things conducted outside protocol. “I’m going to drop by Sugar’s place, try and talk with him. But if it turns out he’s not there, would you be willing to pass along the combination? I’d like to take a look around.”
“Sorry, Maggie. I’m not comfortable giving you the combination. Unless, of course, he’s wanted by the law for something.”
“No wants or warrants as far as I know.”
“But you think something might be going on at his property up Road 2170?” she asked.
“Don’t really know, but the car thieves had also been in Condon a few days ago. They might’ve been looking for Sugar there or out here. For whatever reason.”
“Hmm. And if they were?”
“I want to know why.”
“Well, I can tell you this. Sugar’s not a very adept criminal if he is one.”
“Meaning?”
Janine shrugged. “Just saying it’s already pretty easy to ignore the warning to trespassers that cameras are recording their every move.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Nary a camera present. It’s also easy to drive up Road 2170, climb over the gate, and get onto his land. And the combination he came up with is not particularly clever, if you get my drift.”
Janine knew a lot for having met the guy only two days ago. So, it crossed my mind she was sending me a coded message. “It was good to see you again, but I should be on my way. Think I’ll drop by Muldaur’s hunting retreat up Road two, one, seven, zero to see what I can see, though.”
She smiled. “You always were a smart kid. Smart cop, too, is what I’ve heard.”
“Just one more thing. What time did Sugar drop by for his visit on Thursday?”
“Early afternoon. Around twelve thirty. Stayed twenty minutes or so.”
From the locked gate outside Sugar Muldaur’s Murderers Creek property, I spotted the trailer house depicted in the photo Hollis discovered online yesterday. It was a dreary trash heap, really, but parked nearby was a fancy new all-terrain vehicle.
I pulled up my binoculars and surveyed the rest of the place. It appeared Muldaur owned less than ten acres of land. Like Janine had said, security cameras seemed to be nonexistent, despite signage declaring otherwise.
I clutched the padlock affixed to the gate and dialed in the combination Janine Harbaugh had hinted at—two, one, seven, zero. When it snapped open, I lifted the lock from its shackle collar and hooked it through a thick link on the heavy-duty chain.
Low-slung cattle fencing, the kind large game from the neighboring wildlife area could easily leap or climb over, cordoned off the premises. As I’d suspected, any animals, particularly the dwindling population of mule deer, would be easy targets. Like shooting the proverbial fish in the proverbial barrel.
Muldaur’s mobile home turned out to be a rusted, ancient eight-by-twenty-four-foot Fleetwood, two-toned in harvest gold and white. I paced its perimeter and found the curtains slapped shut, the front door padlocked. Again taking Janine’s cue, I made the guess he wasn’t fastidious about security and attempted the same combination I’d used to open the gate. The lock sprung, I turned the door handle and stepped inside. The darkened interior appeared to be roughly furnished and definitely filthy.
A dank fetor swamped the place. Some critter had made its home there for a while, noticeable by the lingering feral taint, acrid and pungent.
“Christ on a crutch,” I croaked, cupping a hand over my nose and mouth.
The lavatory was an ungodly mess. The dregs of a toilet overflow or two still clung to the orange indoor-outdoor carpeting. That sight alone must have disgusted the more discriminating individuals who’d paid the inflated price of admission to hunt on Sugar’s so-called retreat.
Moving on with my non-sanctioned inspection of the trailer, I checked drawers, cupboards, and the one closet, finding nothing to suggest a connection to J.T. Lake’s murder or Cruise and Porter’s lethal dive down a canyon.
I re-locked Muldaur’s trailer house and turned my attention to the open-air shed where the large Honda ATV and its heavy-duty utility cart were parked. Elaborate equipment, given the state of the mobile home, and likely there to be used by hunters for roaming the property and transporting their weaponry and whatever game they bagged.
After finding nothing of particular note in the shed and re-setting the gate lock, I climbed back in my police vehicle. Still not convinced Muldaur had nothing more than a tenuous connection to this week’s deadly events, I was overcome by an urge to talk it over with Hollis. He had promised Lil he’d take the weekend off, and that’s what I had to let him do, this bit of niggling intrigue be damned.
I adjusted the Tahoe’s rearview mirror and watched a small camper van pull up behind my rig. I recognized the driver from another photo Holly had dug up online. The one and only Sugar Muldaur.
I stepped back out of my rig and walked to his. Realizing I intended to speak with him, he turned off the engine and rolled down the driver’s side window. As I approached, a rush of cold air-conditioning broke free of the van, along with the man’s sour breath.
“Mr. Muldaur?”
“Yes, officer.” A tenor’s high-pitched aria quavered from the van’s speakers.
“Turn down the music, please.”
“And interrupt Plácido?”
I tossed Muldaur one of my blank stares, and he cut the volume. From somewhere in the back of the camper van, a dog barked. Loudly, ferociously.
“Quiet down, Lord!” Muldaur yelled.
I assumed Lord was the German shepherd Janine had mentioned. She had been right, the animal did not sound friendly, even after muting his yapping to a low snarl.
“How is it you know my name?” Muldaur asked.
“The County Tax Office. Property ownership is a matter of public record.”
And like most so-called public records, it took someone with Hollis-like search skills and tenacity to access such information.
Sugar smiled broadly. “I see. Is there some problem at my hunting retreat? Looking for poachers, perhaps?”
“Two people—Vincent Cruise and Anna Jo Porter—were killed out here on Road 2170 yesterday, not far from your property.”
“Yes, such a shame. I heard about it on the local radio station. Poor creatures descended into a barranca.”
Ah, this must have been one of the odd-ways-of-phrasing-things Janine had also referred to. But what the hell was a barranca?
Sugar studied me for a moment. “A gorge, constable.”
At least I understood what constable meant.
“Had you met the victims, or perhaps noticed them out here before the accident?”
“Never had the pleasure of meeting them, nor have I noticed anyone nearby. You see, I’m only now returning from a two-day sojourn to some nearby riverine townships.”
“Riverine townships?”
“The burgs of John Day and Mt. Vernon. Hamlets populated by river dwellers, so to speak,” he said, laughing.
“I see. When did you begin your stay out here?”
“This past Wednesday morning. Soon after my arrival, I realized there was a need to replenish supplies and provisions.”
“When did you make your ‘sojourn’ to John Day and Mt. Vernon?”
“On Thursday, madam. I shopped at several establishments in John Day.”
Establishments? The guy was from Condon. Why all the hoity-toity language?
“I also camped Thursday and Friday nights at Clyde Holiday Park in Mt. Vernon. I missed all the action, you might say.”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Muldaur. It’s a short drive to and from either town. Why not simply return to your hunting cabin out here rather than renting a camping space?”
“You’ve inspected the premises?”
“County records indicate the dwelling.” Which was accurate, if not the full story.
“I see. I’ve owned this piece of real estate only a short time. I’ve not yet had the opportunity to replace the mobile home with a more modern, dare I say, hygienic model. And in the interim, my camper van provides pleasant, albeit spartan accommodations.”
I continued prodding. “Thursday, on your way down the mountain to do your shopping, you might have passed the accident victims driving a brown four-wheel-drive Ford pickup.”
“I don’t pay much attention to makes and models. But I can safely say I’ve not seen one automobile on Road 2170 since I arrived at my hunters’ retreat on Wednesday, aside from your police conveyance, of course. And as far as other thoroughfares and byways are concerned, I have no recollection whatsoever of any one particular vehicle.”
As evidenced by his photo, Sugar was a portly, fleshy, well-upholstered individual. And, so far, full of verbosity but seemingly as harmless as Janine had noted.
“I have a feeling you’re not from eastern Oregon,” I said.
“Are there statutes prohibiting citizens moving here from another state?”
I almost laughed. “Some folks would be in favor of that, I’m sure. But no, that kind of prohibition would still be seen as unconstitutional.”
“Good to know. Suffice it to say, I hail from elsewhere.”
“Connecticut?”
“Heavens no.”
“What brought you to Condon?”
“Employment. I’m an instructor of high school English and the dramatic arts. I coach the chess team as well.”
“And besides this place, you own cabins and rentals in Madras and La Pine. That’s pretty impressive, considering you’re living on a small-town teacher’s salary.”
“Excellent internet search. Bravo! I feel, oh, how should I say, special. Here you’ve gone to the trouble of tracking down where I live and what extraneous properties I own.”
I’d touched a nerve. “Mr. Muldaur, it’s my job to dig around, ask questions. Speaking of which, you neglected to explain how you’re able to afford the purchase of several properties.”
“Well, I’m not a land baron, if that’s what you’re suggesting. But I do have a flourishing investment portfolio. And last I knew, it is my right to use the proceeds of those investments as I choose. As long as it’s within the law, of course.”
“Certainly, Mr. Muldaur. And I apologize if my probing offends you, but a State Police officer was murdered a few miles from here this past Thursday. And the next day,
two fugitive drug dealers drove to this very back road and got themselves killed.”
He readjusted his large, undulating torso. “Kismet.”
“That’s a pretty callous way of putting it.” I was now beginning to tire of this person. “I neglected to tell you, the fugitives—Vincent Cruise and Anna Jo Porter—were seen driving away from Condon before traveling to my county.”
“That’s got nothing to do with me.”
“You said you arrived here at your hunting retreat on Wednesday. Where were you at between one and two o’clock on Thursday?”
“Was that when the officer was murdered? Surely you don’t think…I was shopping at Chester’s Market in John Day. I have the receipt to prove it.”
“I’d like to see that, please.”
“Certainly, Constable Blackthorne.”
He strained across the passenger seat, opened the glove compartment, and retrieved the receipt. It was dated Thursday, August thirteenth, time-stamped one thirty-seven p.m. Unlikely he was knifing J.T. Lake around that time.
“If you wish, I can further verify this purchase by allowing you to peruse my bank statement.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Muldaur.”
“Oh, do call me Sugar. I’m quite certain you’ve already discovered that’s my nom de plume.”
9
Late Afternoon, August 15
I found a spot near Muldaur’s place to turn my rig around and head back toward the main mountain road. Moving back past his property, I studied the man. He stood at the gate fiddling with the padlock and holding his rowdy, snarling German shepherd by the collar.
I could have asked to search his camper van, but with essentially nothing to go on, that would’ve verged on police harassment, not honest cop work. Even the fact that the two Oxy slingers had recently traveled up this very same out-of-the-way dirt track was evidence of not much.
The Condon coincidence was mildly intriguing. The town contained fewer than seven hundred souls, so even a couple of knuckleheads like Cruise and Porter could have easily located Muldaur’s address and paid him a call. But that seemed questionable from this vantage point. Even so, I jotted down the van’s plate number as I motored by.