by Nancy Bush
Morant was about fifty, in good shape, with strong-looking arms and a new haircut that was shaved white above his ears. He shook hands with her and introduced himself, then said, “I can’t tell you any more than I told Detective Pelligree. The call came in and we were told to look for angel of death poisoning in the ... what’s the vic’s name?”
“John Linfield.”
He grunted. “Right. Linfield’s death.”
“It was a woman’s voice on the phone,” prodded September.
“That’s right. I told the sheriff about it, and he called you people at Laurelton PD to order the autopsy.” He hesitated. “Pelligree didn’t mention you.”
She nodded crisply. “Wes is no longer on the investigation. He’s moving to Portland PD.” Morant made a sound of surprise as September went on glibly, “I know. Detective Sanders and I are going to miss him. So, I thought I’d meet with the sheriff and you personally. We really want to find this caller and learn how she knew what to look for.” She hadn’t technically said she was still an officer, but she was certainly skating on thin ice.
“The phone was from the StopGo shop by the Shell station in Glenn River.”
“I’m heading there next,” September said. “The caller gave the information directly to you. Do you remember her exact words?”
“‘The angel of death killed someone at the Stonehenge auction. The autopsy will show you.’ That’s pretty close.”
“She used the word ‘Stonehenge’?”
“No . . . no ... that was me. She said, ‘at the Crissman auction.’” He looked a bit sheepish. “I’m sure this time. That place is just called Stonehenge around here by people.”
“When you say people, you mean ... ?”
“Oh, neighbors, really ... the Kilgores for sure. I know them pretty well. Daniel Kilgore died a while back, but Mona and Brianne are there.”
“The Kilgores own the property that abuts ... Stonehenge.”
He smiled. “That’s right.”
September asked a few more questions, but Morant had nothing further. She took her leave, breathing a sigh of relief that the deputy hadn’t found her out. She drove directly to the southern edge of Glenn River and found the StopGo convenience store near the Shell station and headed inside, noting the rows of neatly arranged packaged goods: junk food, auto supplies, a small dairy section, magazines, batteries, phone chargers, everything to grab on the go. She walked up to the counter. A middle-aged man with a sweeping gray mustache was at the register. His name tag read Barry. She introduced herself. “I’m September Westerly with Laurelton PD. Are you the person who sold the disposable phone that was sold from this store and used to phone the sheriff’s department about the Stonehenge poisoning?”
“The what?”
“Its real name is Wolfe Lodge.”
Barry hesitated and looked over his shoulder. A woman about his age had appeared from behind a tan door near automotive supplies and was slowly walking their way. She had short, steel-gray hair and a stolid face that was focused on Barry. Her name tag read Rhonda.
“I talked to an officer,” said Barry, as Rhonda reached the counter, eyes narrowing.
“Detective Pelligree. I talked to him about the phone sold from your store.”
“We don’t know anything,” said Rhonda.
September wondered if they were married. There was something about her possessiveness that spoke of their being more than just co-workers.
“We’re gonna get cameras now,” Barry said.
“Shoulda done it a long time ago,” Rhonda agreed.
“There’s no paperwork for the sale?” September asked, knowing she was going to hit a dead end because Wes had already filled her in, but she wanted to hear what they had to say anyway.
“Just a cash sale. Lot of people want disposables for cash,” said Rhonda.
“You don’t remember a woman buying a phone?” September asked Barry, who had dropped his gaze to the counter.
“I should,” he said.
“Can’t remember everyone. We get a lot of customers,” added Rhonda.
“Of course,” September said agreeably, though she was the only one in the store on a Friday evening, when people would be getting off work.
“You have some ID?” Rhonda asked suspiciously.
Ah, the jig was up. Bound to happen. September swept in a breath, not quite sure what she was going to say, when Barry looked up and said, “It was over a year ago.”
“You do remember her?” September asked, surprised.
“Nah. Just remembered doing the paperwork,” Rhonda jumped in, glaring at Barry as if she wished he would stop talking.
“That’s right,” Barry agreed. He looked at September directly. “If we knew anything, we’d tell ya. We just don’t remember.”
Rhonda snapped, “That’s for sure.”
“Okay,” September said, thanking them and taking her leave before Rhonda requested her ID again. She’d managed to bluff her way through better than she’d hoped, but she sensed she’d pushed as much as she dared. She was likely going to have to play it straight from here on out.
It was almost six o’clock by the time she reached the Kilgore home: a two-story farmhouse with a moss-covered roof, water dripping down a drooping corner and a fenced area with several goats staring out disinterestedly through wooden rails. The long, winding drive had led through a forest of Douglas firs. She figured the Crissman property, Wolfe Lodge, was to her west, but the forest was too dense to see the huge home. September mentally compared the well-tended Crissman grounds to the wild, nearly engulfed by vegetation Kilgore property and thought about Jerome Wolfe’s apparently avid acquisition of both.
She parked the Outback to one side of a large mud puddle, stepping out cautiously, her ankle boots leaning toward the more decorative when faced with rough terrain. Knocking on the heavy oak door, she heard the deep bark of what sounded like a large dog. No immediate answer by a human. She tried a second time, got another bark, then took a step back, gazing up at the brown-stained board-and-batten siding. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed the goats, still staring, watching her.
Finally, she heard a slow thumping inside, someone approaching. A walker, she thought. Mona Kilgore, Daniel Kilgore’s widow?
When the door opened, a woman with a cloud of white hair, stooped over a metal-framed walker, appeared. September’s first impression was that the woman was in her eighties, but a closer look—and a mental calculation based on the age of her daughter, Brianne, late twenties—put her closer to sixty.
“Mrs. Kilgore, my name’s September Westerly. I’m working with Lucy Crissman Linfield to—”
“I know who you are. Martin called me.”
Martin? Before she could ask, Mrs. Kilgore lifted a hand and motioned to invite her in, then picked up the walker and began slowly thumping her way into the back of the house. September quickly closed the door, then followed her, passing two what looked like little-used front rooms down a hallway to a kitchen and a small sitting room with a lit gas fire. Through a window, September had a view of the propane tank that fed the house back-dropped by dark green firs.
“I’m not sure who Martin is,” September said.
“Oh. Deputy Morant.”
“Ah. He called you?” My, my, they were a tight-knit community.
The older woman sat down heavily in a recliner and swept a red, orange, and brown afghan over her knees. She wore a solid blue robe that snapped up the front, a pair of blue-and-green-striped pajama bottoms, and gray slipper socks that offered traction and looked as if they would stay on her feet.
“Cancer,” she said to September’s unasked question. “My husband died from his heart. Me, it’s the big C.”
September nodded.
“I don’t know anything about that phone call, if that’s why you’re here.”
“It’s one of the reasons I drove your way,” she admitted. She then explained that she was looking for background on the Crissmans and
their deal with Jerome Wolfe.
“Jerome Wolfe,” she said, her lips pulling back into a grimace. “You think there’s a connection to him and the death of Lucy’s husband?” Her skepticism filled the room. For all her infirmity, she was clearly sharp and opinionated.
“Just gathering information at this point.”
“You’re with the police?”
“I . . . was,” she admitted.
“Was . . . that’s not what Martin said.”
“I’m working with Lucy Linfield’s attorney on this case. The police are running their own investigation.”
“They think she did it? Killed her husband?”
September assumed “they” were the police. “I’m not sure, but it isn’t my theory.”
“You got a theory?”
“Just trying to put things into focus at this point.”
“Hmmm.” Mona Kilgore looked past September, who was still standing near the kitchen, and said, “If you want something to drink, you’ll have to help yourself. I could use some water. There’s a pitcher in the fridge. Glasses in that cupboard.” She pointed to one left of the sink.
September found the glasses and pulled out two, pouring them each a glass of water from the pitcher kept chilled in the refrigerator. She took Mona hers and kept one for herself.
“Sit down,” Mona invited, and September settled on the couch. She heard heavy padding and turned to see a huge, older mixed-breed dog moving toward them from the front of the house. He came by and stared at September a moment, then moved toward Mona, easing himself down on the braided rug that filled the area, heaving a deep sigh as he settled.
Mona said, “Duke and I are quite a pair.”
“How old is Duke?”
“About thirteen. Followed Brianne on her bike all the way from town, wouldn’t let her go.”
“Glenn River?”
“Yep. Twenty-two miles. She has a way with animals. You probably heard.”
“She works at an animal shelter.”
“Mmm-hmm. She’ll be back soon. You can talk to her, if you want.”
September thought it was time to get to the point. Maybe she would have time to talk with Brianne, maybe not. She’d gotten most of what she was looking for from Deputy Morant.
“I understand you’re selling your property to Jerome Wolfe.”
“Don’t want to. Daniel never wanted to. But Mr. Wolfe turned Brianne’s head, and she’s the one who’s gonna have this place after I’m gone, so what good does it do to fight? I’d like her to keep it. It’s all she’s ever known, but Brianne doesn’t heed me or her father. Never has.”
“When you say ‘turned Brianne’s head,’ you mean romantically?”
“Yes, ma’am. The man’s handsome, I’ll give him that. Brianne’s a looker herself. Don’t know where she gets it.”
September didn’t like the idea that Wolfe might be using his charm to steal the Kilgore property. “Has he made an offer?”
“Yes, he has, and Brianne has accepted it. But we both have to sign, and I’m the holdout. I’m not leaving this place till I’m gone.” She sighed. “And where will she go, once it’s gone and so am I? Miss ... what did you say your name was?”
“September.”
“Like the month? Huh. Well, September, my daughter can’t see past today. She’ll sell, and then I’m afraid once the paperwork’s done, Wolfe’ll disappear, too. She’ll try to come back, but there’ll be nowhere to come back to. He’ll put up a gate. Raze the house. Harvest the trees. It will kill her.”
“If—”
“I’ve tried to tell her,” Mona went on. “Believe me. I’ve tried, but she doesn’t listen.” She shook her head. “Brianne understands death. She’s seen it with all the animals and with her father, and she knows it’s happening to me soon ... but she doesn’t understand people. She can’t see that Wolfe is using her, and you can’t tell her differently. The man’s a snake in the grass, if you ask me, but Brianne won’t hear of it.”
“What’s the nature of their relationship?”
“Are they doing it? That what you’re asking?” She leveled a look at September.
“Well, I—”
“It’s not sexual. I’m pretty sure. She tried that once and it didn’t work. Maybe Wolfe could convince her otherwise, but I don’t think he’s even trying. He wants the land, and he’s got Brianne’s adoration already. He’s the kind that wants what he can’t have, y’know?”
The picture she was presenting was in keeping with what had been inferred about Jerome Wolfe. “Maybe your daughter needs a lawyer, to ensure she gets a fair price.”
“Oh, she does. She needs one. But she won’t do it. The price is fair. Maybe not top dollar, but it’s close enough that no one’s crying foul. I hear the Crissman daughters don’t want to sell, but the son does.”
“I believe the sale of Wolfe Lodge has been spearheaded by Abbott Crissman, Lucy, Layla, and Lyle’s father.”
She snorted. “Lyle Abbott Crissman the third. I know the man all right.”
“You don’t like him.”
“None of us ever did. His father now, Junior, my Daniel liked him quite a bit. Said he was the best of the bunch, meaning the men in that family. I guess the old guy, Criss, was a terror. Killed his wife. Never found her body. Said she ran off, but Daniel’s family never believed it.” She pointed a trembling finger in the direction of the Crissman property. “They’re all evil. Maybe not the girls, but you can’t trust a Crissman man.”
September took that in.
They heard the rumble of a truck’s engine and Mona said, “Okay, there she is.”
A few moments later, September heard a door open; a back door, through a storeroom off the kitchen. She heard someone taking off their boots, she believed, and then a slim, rawhide-tough-looking young woman walked in, sock-footed.
Nell, September thought in surprise. She looked a lot like Jodie Foster except that her hair, pulled back into a ponytail, was pure, unadulterated silvery gray.
“Runs in the family,” Mona was saying, as if she’d read September’s thoughts. “The hair. That’s what she got from me. Cousin’s the same way. We all gray early.”
September just stared. Brianne Kilgore was the gray-haired woman from the cleaning crew at Wolfe Lodge the night of the benefit.
* * *
September had never really looked directly at the cleaning crew the night of the benefit. She’d been so focused on Lucy and John and everything that went with taking care of the problem of his illness that she’d barely given any of them a second thought. Now, however, she recognized her and said in surprise, “You were at the Denim and Diamonds, Friends of the Columbia River Gorge event.”
“Who are you?” she asked. Her blue eyes slid over September and slid away.
“September Westerly. I’m here on behalf of Lucy—”
She cut her off. “I saw you talking to Jerome.”
September took a moment to assess. “I . . . um . . . yes. I spoke to him that night. I spoke to a lot of people.” She hesitated, and then added, “I was there with my husband.”
“Brianne, sit down a moment,” Mona said. “Talk to this nice woman. She wants to help.”
“Help?” asked Brianne. She remained standing, her voice flat.
Mona went on. “She’s an ex-cop, but now she’s working for Lucy Crissman. She doesn’t think Lucy killed her husband and she’s here trying to figure out what happened to him . . . you said his name was John?” She looked to September.
“John Linfield.”
“He’s the man that died,” said Brianne.
“That’s right.” Mona nodded. “And someone called the sheriff; actually, Martin, down at the station, took the call. Whoever it was said Mr. Linfield died from those mushrooms.”
“The angel of death. Amanita ocreata.” Her voice had little or no inflection. Duke struggled upward, his face turned toward her, and whined piteously. Absently, she walked over and leaned down to him, murmuri
ng and rubbing the crown of his head.
“That’s right,” Mona said a little nervously.
September suspected she was worried that Brianne might have had something to do with Linfield’s poisoning.
“We think he ingested the mushrooms sometime that day. It could have been the day before, but it seems unlikely,” said September.
“You think the mushrooms were picked here,” she said.
“Well, you can get them lots of places,” Mona put in hurriedly.
“I think you’re right,” Brianne stated, staring at the dog.
“You do?” September asked, trying to get a feel for this girl, woman.
“The big oak’s closest to their property.” She was matter-of-fact.
“You don’t know that’s where they came from.” Mona looked worried.
“Where is the big oak?” September asked carefully.
“I’ll show you. Mushrooms grow around the roots in the spring. I’ve seen a lot of them. You have to be careful.”
“Yes,” September agreed.
“Come on, then.”
With that, she stalked back across the kitchen and to the storeroom and her boots.
Mona said urgently, “She would never hurt anyone.”
September didn’t respond. She wasn’t sure what she was seeing with Brianne Kilgore, but she knew she couldn’t categorically make that same prediction.
* * *
They tromped through the woods. The goats had followed them to the edge of their pen, baaing loudly for Brianne, who’d stopped to reach through the fence rails, rub their heads, and tell them she would be right back. September tried to picture Brianne’s life outside this home, sought to imagine her in another world, and failed. She understood Mona Kilgore’s worry. Brianne might not prosper in the world outside. She had very little affect, and September suspected she didn’t perceive social signals in the same way most people did.
“Jerome Wolfe wants to buy your property,” September said as they walked. Her boots could very well be ruined after this, but ah, well. She should have been better prepared.
“He is buying it. As soon as Mom dies.”
“How is your mother?”