Around four thirty, I reached the western edge of John Day and pulled into the large lot in front of Chester’s Market. Holly and Lil’s Vanagon was parked near the store entrance, and I had the giddy thought I might get to see my godchild today after all.
Inside, I grabbed a shopping basket and began trolling the aisles for signs of the little family, finding Lillian Two Moons alone in the produce section. She appeared to be exhausted from lack of sleep, for which Hank, her high-energy eighteen-month-old, was the likely cause. But I suspected his spunky disposition had little to do with the loss of sheen in her once gorgeous black hair, now limp, dull, and unkempt.
“Lil?”
She hadn’t noticed me, and seemingly agitated, she turned toward the sound of my voice with a cold, vacant expression I found unsettling.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine.”
Her dark eyes conveyed otherwise, and it occurred to me there was some possibility of marriage troubles. Even settled, loving couples could grow apart while raising young children, or so I’d heard.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I pressed.
Lil stared blankly at a display of Golden Delicious apples.
“Lil?”
“No, Maggie. I’m not okay,” she whispered.
I placed a hand lightly on her upper arm. “Are Hollis and Hank here with you?”
She shook her head.
“Let’s go next door for coffee.”
Dabbing a single stray teardrop, she pointed to her half-full cart. “As soon as I pay for all this.”
While Lil waited in a checkout line, I selected the sack of cat litter and bag of kitty food I’d come in for and popped into the self-checkout queue. Once we finished up, I helped carry her groceries to the Vanagon, deposited my items on the front floorboard of my Tahoe, and we walked in silence to Nade’s Coffee Den, a door down from Chester’s Market.
We ordered and paid for our iced coffees and sat at a table in the far corner of Nade’s, which, like the rest of the place, was decorated with an abundance of gingham.
Nursing my drink, I contemplated the best approach to our conversation. I was genuinely pitiful when it came to comforting people, especially someone who mattered to me and, in this case, was also married to my best friend and patrol partner. Plus, I tended to be too direct in these situations.
“Things are okay between you and Hollis?”
Lillian’s hands shook as she picked up her mug and sipped. “It’s not that.”
I nearly pleaded with her to tell me, and she must have seen it in my eyes.
“I’m sick,” she said.
“But you just had your annual checkup.” I sounded ridiculous. And insensitive.
She almost laughed. “Is that what Hollis told you? No, I had tests done week before last. This past Thursday, Dr. Wayne invited me to join her while she discussed my case over Skype with a specialist in Bend.”
Lil exhaled slowly. “It’s cancer. They’re removing an ovary, and between that and chemo, they’ll stop it from spreading. Hopefully. But long term, there’s some chance it will kill me.”
“How much of a chance?”
“I’ll know more after the surgery.”
“When is the surgery?”
“In a little over two weeks.”
God. Holly. He must have purposely inured himself to Lil’s news, locking away the possibility of losing her, driving out to the scene of J.T. Lake’s murder only hours after learning of her diagnosis, maintaining his role as faithful sidekick until the weekend arrived and he could take care of his ill wife and young son.
“I had to get out of the house for a while. Hollis is,” Lil paused, “not taking it well.”
I took both of her hands. “In cop code-talk, this would be called a deal.”
“Oh, I know. And I know what that’s code for. And it’s true. A fucked-up situation is exactly what this is.”
I smiled. “You’re a strong woman. If anyone can fight this thing, it’s you.”
“I’m not that tough, Maggie. But I’ll count on you to point the way.”
“What the hell are you talking about? If I were in your place, I’d be swimming in denial.”
“Maybe, but you’d also be pissed and seeking some goddamn insight as to how and why this happened to you.”
“You should be angry, Lil. Plus you deserve some answers about how it is you ended up being a statistic.” I lowered my voice an octave. “And I know just the guy to help you dig into all that.”
“Oh yeah. And you and I both know he opened his computer to do just that right after I drove off to the store. Bet he’s already got a batch of research for me to digest.”
While I waited for an opening in traffic at the entrance/exit to Chester’s Market and the other shops located at the small business center, Dave Shannon pulled past me into the parking lot. He drove an even newer Ford F-150, red this time, with the dealership name where plates would ordinarily hang. No temporary tag was pasted in the back window either, so the truck was likely a loaner covered by insurance until his claim was sorted out.
I tossed him a friendly wave, but he slipped on by, apparently oblivious to my police rig and me. I drifted slowly out onto the roadway and headed toward the office.
Slouched at my desk, I was unable to shake Lillian’s news. I might as well have called it a day for all the brain space I couldn’t be bothered to give over to a murder investigation.
I opened my computer and looked up “ovarian cancer.” Until now, it was just another female thing I’d avoided thinking about. I was alarmed to learn the disease can be hard to detect until it’s progressed to a more dangerous stage. So was that the case with Lil?
I noted that women of all races improved their chances of not developing ovarian cancer if they had given birth. Good news for Lil, not so for me. And white women were more likely to be diagnosed and die of the disease, followed by American Indian/Alaskan Native women. Not particularly good news for either of us.
Earlier, as we had sat with our bitter iced coffees, Lil recalled one of her aunties dying of ovarian cancer, another of breast cancer. In my family, a couple of my aunts died of cigarette-induced lung disease and my mother killed herself, all before the age of thirty-five. My father drowned his liver in cheap whiskey and died in his forties.
Early death had shadowed a large chunk of my life. Still, I’d managed to avoid reflecting on my own mortality. Didn’t see much value in doing so now either.
I left off my ruminations about Lil and cancer and moved back to the alcove. I raised a Sharpie to the sheet of chart pack paper serving as our murder board and noted some knowns: the body mutilation, the belt buckle, the black Stetson, and the Buck knife.
At some point, Al had suggested that victims of violence were often caught off guard, with no time to react. Jeremy Lake had the training and instinct to defend himself. Even without a service revolver strapped to his leg. Why didn’t he? I added no sign of a struggle to the murder board.
According to his fiancée, J.T. had planned to check out Forest Service rentals for their upcoming honeymoon. He was presumably killed while sizing up the cabin at Murderers Creek Guard Station. Had he simply shown up at the right place but the wrong time, a possible witness to whatever malfeasance the murderer might have undertaken? And why was his Volvo SUV parked at a wayside a mile away? I jotted down that detail too.
Shortly before leaving for Bend this afternoon, the detective had reflected on the possibility the Guthook knife had been used in J.T.’s murder. He’d speculated that a killer would only use such a weapon if they really wanted to viciously mess somebody up. Whoever had stabbed J.T. Lake to death had done just that.
Conceivably, Cruise and Porter were far more homicidal than their rap sheets let on. But that idea didn’t sit right with me. I saw them as a couple of riffraff opioid dealers who were perfectly willing to scavenge a dead man’s hat, belt buckle, and severed ear but would probably draw the line at lift
ing the guy’s wallet out of his blood-drenched pocket. I stared at the murder board. So far, we had a paucity of information, which amounted to not much more than the fact that J.T. had suffered a horrible death.
When I paused to take that in, my already morbid thoughts turned to more suffering and dying. Zoey and Tate, my mother and father, each complicit in their own death. Alligator Paulus, my childhood best friend killed in a freak accident. Jeremy T. Lake slaughtered. And now there was a chance Lillian Two Moons would lose her life to some fickle disease.
Lil had asked me to not mention her illness to Hollis—not just yet, anyway—and said they both were still processing what the disease might mean for their family, that he would share the news with me when he was ready. I had promised I wouldn’t say a word, but staying silent would be tough. I almost wished she hadn’t revealed her diagnosis to me. I wasn’t good at pocketing another person’s terror.
I turned off lights in the lavatory and alcove and silenced the bucket-of-bolts swamp cooler. At Holly’s desk, I paused to pick up a framed photo of Lil and Hank.
In a moment of weakness, I decided a little check-in message to Hollis wouldn’t hurt. Something in line with our standard smartass banter.
“Hola!” I texted.
“What’s this?” Hollis replied.
“Español…”
“Sí, sargento. Como puedo ayudarte?”
“All right, showoff. Let’s get together for beers tomorrow.”
“Te veo en el parque a las once en punto.”
“At the park?”
“Sí, a las once en punto.”
“We can’t drink beer in the city park,” I protested.
“Hank can’t drink beer at all.”
“Got it. Meet you and Hank at what time?”
“Eleven.”
“I’ll hide the gin and tonics in my thermos.”
“Afraid I’d have to bust you for that.”
“Hasta mañana.”
After hitting send on the final text to Hollis, I dialed up Duncan’s number.
“How’s Sergeant Maggie Blackthorne this evening?” he asked.
“Hungry.”
“Feel like going out for dinner?”
“Nah. How about this, I’ll take a shower at my apartment and then pick up a pizza on the way to your house.”
“Sure. And bring Louie along. You always feel guilty leaving him alone overnight in your apartment.”
“He won’t know what to do with all that territory to explore out there.”
“Yeah, and he just might never want to leave.”
I knew this was another nudge to hurry up and move in, but I didn’t have the energy to come up with one of my usual retorts.
“See you in about an hour, Dun. I’ll bring Louie along, too.”
After finishing up the routine of closing up shop for the day, I considered my conversation with Muldaur. “Maybe you should’ve searched his camper van, Blackthorne.” My voice echoed in the wee alcove like a shout from the rim rocks surrounding our modular police station.
I turned my computer back on, opened the Oregon State Police staff portal, and entered “Condon.” Only one name appeared: Trooper Levi Hadley. I knew the dude from my cop stint in Salem. And now he was the single OSP officer stationed in sparsely populated Gilliam County. The rapid, whitewater curves of the John Day formed the county’s western boundary as the river wound its way through baked Palouse and basalt cliffs toward the Columbia.
I dialed Hadley’s number and left a voicemail requesting a call back ASAP. Fairly certain I wouldn’t hear from him until Monday at the earliest, I logged off, turned out the front-office lights, and locked the door.
At sunrise, a gradient cast of amber light extended over the grassland steppe spreading westward from Duncan’s little house, turning the shadows of juniper and scrub trees into a ragged army marching slowly across the high plain. I stood outside on the back deck and drank my coffee. In the air, a cooler heat held the fecund scent of apple, pear, and stone fruit orchards, the ripe aroma carried up from the river valley by an errant wind.
The garden door from the dining room opened, and Duncan appeared beside me. “Come back to bed.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Who said anything about sleeping?”
“Ah, you have to take in the gorgeous morning sky first, though.”
We faced the mountains to the east but were abruptly interrupted by my phone bleating from its charging station on the kitchen counter.
Duncan eyed his watch. “Six seventeen. Probably not a social call.”
“Nope.” I stepped inside, noting the name displayed on the screen. Levi Hadley, the trooper out of Condon. “Sergeant Blackthorne speaking.”
“Maggie! How are you?”
The two of us dated a few times back in the day, but he had the peculiar habit of pushing all my buttons just to rile me. I broke it off after several heated arguments about liberals, organic vegetables, and feminists. He took a dim view of all three.
“I’m doing well, Levi. How about you?”
“Divorced. Got a couple of kids. And I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere.”
“I would’ve thought Condon was right up your alley.”
“And I would’ve thought you’d get yourself stationed in Portland, maybe
Eugene or Bend.”
“Life’s weird sometimes.”
“Uh-huh. Well, sorry to call so early, and on a Sunday, but I got your message and took the ASAP to mean just that.”
“No problem. I was already awake, coffee cup in hand. Appreciate you getting back to me.”
“What’s up?”
“I wanted to ask you about a guy from Condon named Edward Earl Muldaur.”
“Sugar? The high school teacher?”
“That’s the guy.”
“He lives a block away from me. Kind of odd, but there’s a lot of that out here.”
“Tell me about it.”
Levi laughed. “Why are you asking about Sugar?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure. Except it turns out he has some property in my county he rents out as a hunting retreat. It’s located a few miles from where Sergeant Jeremy Lake was murdered.”
“Didn’t really like Lake, but I was sorry to hear how he ended up getting killed. And at some place called Murderers Creek, of all things. But as far as Mr. Muldaur’s concerned, you checked DMV and LEDS?”
“Nothing but an old speeding ticket.”
“So why’s he on your radar?”
“Like I say, I’m not sure. He was visiting his hunting property the day before Lake was murdered, and he’s been in the area ever since. Thing is, he’s got a grocery receipt that appears to verify he was in John Day around the time of the killing, so I’d say he’s off the hook for that.”
“You talked to him?”
“Yep.”
“So you see what I’m saying about him being odd?”
Odd was a relative term where Levi Hadley was concerned, so I left off answering.
“Did Sugar have anything else to tell you?” he continued.
“Nope. But you heard about those two drug dealers who stole a pickup truck from a local and then ran it off a cliff and died on Friday?”
“Don’t remember the names right now, but a man and a woman, right?”
“Vincent Cruise and Anna Jo Porter. They were reported to have been in the Condon area earlier this past week.”
“Not by me. Some off-duty Gilliam County Sheriff deputy biking Six Mile Canyon spotted them.”
“Anyway,” I said. “I was following those two up an obscure mountain road when they crashed. I believe they were looking for something. And the only thing up there, other than Forest Service land, is Muldaur’s private hunting property.”
“Ah. And Sugar claimed he didn’t know them, right?”
“Right.”
“Let me see what I can dig up about him. I’ll ask around about the fugitives too.”
�
��Thanks, Levi.”
“Great talking to you, Maggie. Maybe I’ll drop by for a visit sometime.”
Ugh. The thought of Levi Hadley calling round gave me a mild headache. “Oh, sure. Anytime.”
10
Morning, August 16
Duncan had come back into the house and was now sprawled on the daybed in his living room reading the latest political tome he’d purchased online. Something titled No Respect: Class Wars in America.
He reset his bookmark. “Who’s Levi?”
I lifted my eyebrows. “An old boyfriend.”
He patted the daybed. “Here, sit.”
I settled beside him. “What would you like for breakfast? I feel like cooking.”
He drew me closer and put an arm around my shoulders. “Damn, I think I have to mark that down on the calendar.”
“Seriously, what should I rustle up for breakfast?”
“Surprise me.” He lifted my tank top, deftly unfastened the front hook of my bra, and cupped his warm hand over my left breast.
“Are you inviting me to cook in the buff?”
“Something like that.”
I turned toward the stairs. “Come with me.”
“Nah,” he said and pulled off his T-shirt.
“You want to make love in the living room?”
“I do.” He removed a cotton blanket from the back of the daybed, spread it beside us over the velvet upholstery, and shed his boxers. “Well?”
I slipped out of my top and bra. “Never a dull moment with you, is there?”
“I sure as hell hope not.”
Shortly before eleven, I pulled in beside Hollis and Lil’s Vanagon at the city park. Little Hank was playing in the toddler area, shoveling sand into the bucket of a large toy dump truck. His dad sat at a bench nearby reading the Sunday Oregonian. For a moment, I thought better of disturbing them, knowing I would have a difficult time staying away from the subject of Lil’s illness. I reminded myself this wasn’t my matter to bring up.
Murderers Creek (Maggie Blackthorne Book 2) Page 9