When he stays over in town it is with his brother, Fiddling Thomas. Thomas plays for us on Saturday nights at the Lonesome Moose. The rest of the week he repairs things—radios, cars, whatever.
I waved a farewell to the three of them and they waved back. No one came out to offer me a helping hand. That was okay. I hadn’t asked and we are big on staying out of people’s business until they invite us in. Our mayor owned the pub and I wanted to talk to him first about what I’d found. And to convince him that, as mayor, it was his job to call the Mounties. If we called the Mounties. In spite of potential complications, I was pretty sure that we should.
Around town are a series of cables that are attached to iron posts. These are safety lines we use for getting around during whiteouts. We take them down in summer, but leave them out October to May. If a bad storm hits and you have to move around town, you need these safety lines to harness yourself. The whiteouts are deadly and we take no chances.
Finally, I made it to the pub. It took a final heave and a grunt to get the shredding tarp up onto the wooden walkway.
“You were a big help,” I told my dog. Max barked encouragement as I backed my way through the door.
The Lonesome Moose has a distinctive look and smell. The scent of beer and grease from the fryer is inevitable in a small, closed-up space, but layered over that was the odor of certain patrons who preferred to do their annual bathing during the summer months. Shallow breathing is a good idea when Whisky Jack is inside, which is nearly always.
No one will be surprised to learn that there is a stuffed moose in the pub. Any establishment rejoicing in the name of the Lonesome Moose should have one. A mere moose head would be commonplace, a whole moose, not so unusual. What we had is half a moose. The front half, which survived being eaten by wolves. It is mounted to the wall above the bar so that its front legs rest on the bar’s wooden top, where it proudly stands on its two remaining hooves, eternally guarding the beer taps. The poor thing has begun to shed though, and patrons have learned to accept the occasional stray hair in their beer. If we had any kind of government health inspections we would have to take it down, but we don’t. And a little moose hair never hurt anyone.
Big John McIntyre owns the pub and runs it with the help of his daughter, Judy (the Flowers), who cooks, waits tables, and always grows a pretty garden in the summer. I think Judy is a widow or maybe divorced. She is quiet about her year in Winnipeg, and I think whatever happened there was not the stuff of Hallmark movie specials.
Madge Brightwater was in the pub that day with her bitch, Nakomas, and she greeted me cheerfully as I pushed through the doors. Madge trains sled dogs and races sometimes. There might have been trouble with Max and some of her team, but my dog is smitten with Nakomas so we had no doggy posturing.
The Bones was there too, but he was sleeping in a corner booth, head cradled in his arms.
“It’s a little early for Christmas, Butterscotch,” Big John said, eyeing my pile of duffel bags. “But thank you kindly for the thought, eh.”
“Oh no, it’s not.” I unzipped my coat and pulled off my cap. The pub felt like the inside of a furnace after the outdoors. “Only it isn’t Santa Claus that’s crashed up on the ridge.”
“What?”
I leaned over and unfolded the tarp, and then unzipped the bags.
“Mary, Mother of God,” Madge breathed.
“There’s a body too—pilot. No snow gear. It’s a single-engine plane too. No passengers, no luggage. And it went down either before or very early in the storm. It was completely buried until Max found it.”
Neither Madge nor Big John moved or spoke. They were staring fixedly at the loot. Like I said, it was a lot of money. And the gun looked pretty wicked, even to people who are used to firearms.
“And though I hate to bring it up, since it is a lot of money and I know we could use it, but I think we had better call the Mounties and tell them about this. And when I say we, I mean you, Big John. After all, you’re the mayor.”
This finally got his attention and his green eyes turned my way.
“Now, let’s not be hasty, eh? This is a lot of money and no one wants to be bringing in the Mounties.”
“I know,” I sighed. “But the dead guy’s clearly a criminal and this is probably stolen property.”
“Aye, but maybe no one knows he came our way. There’s been no reports of missing planes. I haven’t heard of any local robberies either. Perhaps he’s from Stateside and no one knows he’s out this way. Mayhap we’re safe.”
I pointed at the machine pistol.
“He had weird tattoos. I’m thinking gangs or mafia.”
“But it’s a lot of money.” John sounded wistful. “And if we call they will make us give it back.”
“There could be a reward,” I argued.
“I think we should call a town meeting,” Madge said. “After all, this affects us all, John, and we need to be in agreement.”
“A’right,” he agreed, relieved. “And it’s always been share and share alike, eh. We won’t be keeping it all for ourselves. Start the phone tree, Madge. This is one of the few times that it will be convenient having a party line.”
By the phone tree, he meant both the crank phone, whose signal of one long, sustained ring meant that everyone should pick up, and the various radios people had in the trucks and cabins outside of town.
“When shall we meet?”
“We’ll gather at seven in the town hall. There’s a full moon and we’ve time yet before the next storm.”
“Better do it here. I know it makes a mess, but it’s warmer.”
“So, it’s still coming?” I asked, relieved that the decision about what to do with the loot and body would not be left up to me.
“Yep, and it’s going to be bad for the delaying. You’ve firewood laid in?” John asked me.
“Yes, and fuel for the generator.”
“Good. I’ve a bit of venison laid by for the werewolf.” He smiled at Max. I don’t hunt and Big John feels sorry for my dog, who eats mainly kibble.
“Max says thank you.”
“See you at seven, ladies. I’ll waken the Bones,” John said, picking up the duffel bags and heading for his office. He had a safe in there, and I assumed that this was where he was going to store the loot.
Chapter 3: The Meeting
“Would this gathering please come to order,” Big John McIntyre bellowed, beating the heavy beer stein on the bar top as if it was a judge’s gavel. “Please, would you all come to some kind of order, eh?” he pleaded when his first few fierce demands went unheeded.
I sat on a stool at the bar by Big John’s side, nervously nursemaiding the now empty duffel bags I’d lugged into town. Why John thought I wanted them, I do not know, and I planned to give them back. I’d initially thought that Big John’s plan for a town meeting was a good idea because I was sure that reason would prevail. But doubts grew and intensified as I observed the limits of his ability to control a crowd. We all kind of got cabin fever during the dark months and we got a little giddy when in company.
“Order in the court!” John finally bellowed, beating the mug on the bar top until it shattered.
This prompted uproarious laughter intermingled with more boisterous conversation.
Whisky Jack remained huddled in his corner, nursing his free shot glass full of rotgut and probably wishing he had more. I hoped no one gave it to him. A few more drinks and he’d get talkative and then argumentative. I would never muzzle my dog. Whisky Jack was another matter.
Compassion is a good thing, I know, and there was no denying that Jack had had a bad war. He came home with the twin convictions that he couldn’t make it through the day without alcohol and that there was a thief under every bed. A thief that had stolen some cache of loot he’d found in the war and that I doubted had ever really existed anywhere but his mind.
“Oy!” Samuel Levine-Jones, only one of several odd cards in the pack, finally stood and called out.
“Oy!” he shouted again.
For some reason, Samuel’s irritating squeals drew more attention from the out-of-control crowd than had the most fierce rants that Big John could muster. Two more “Oy”s and the group started to simmer down.
“Thank you, Samuel. Now, is everyone here that was asked to be here?” Big John wanted to know.
This, by the way, was everyone that could be reached by phone, foot, and radio. There were a couple missing faces.
“No,” someone called out. “I think Denny the Diesel has trapped himself in the lavvy.”
“He’s not trapped,” someone else called out in reply. “He’s just having some wee private time with his laddie now that he’s in a heated building.”
And that’s all it took to lose control again. Big John sighed heavily, dropped his elbows to the bar, and put his head in his hands. Given free rein, his audience ran wild. John wasn’t mayor because he was a charismatic leader. He was mayor because he had a phone.
For my part, I’d seen and heard enough. Rising from my barstool, I unholstered my classic Colt .45 and discharged the cacophonous piece of ordinance into the ceiling. The result was complete and utter silence in the saloon, along with several drawn firearms. People looked at me with rounded eyes and I think mine were probably equally as shocked. Others have shot the ceiling before, but it wasn’t a common act and I am usually the quiet, wallflower type.
“That’s going to have to be patched,” Big John observed, twisting his beard on his fingertip and looking up at the shower of debris falling from the ceiling onto his once-clean bar top.
Finally there was quiet.
“Oidche mhath. Thank you for coming.” Big John pursed his lips and shook his head, assuming a solemn disposition. His audience could see, quite clearly, and could guess from his use of Gaelic that there was some heavy news to share. “The young lassie, Butterscotch Jones, come dragging something interesting into town this morning. I’ll let her explain, eh.”
There was complete quiet as John abruptly stepped aside, and I was forced to stand and address the packed house. Thanks a lot, Big John. I began telling my news slowly and steadily, though I had no real expectation of being able to get through my story in one telling.
“I found a crashed plane not too far outside of town. It must have come down in the last storm. It was a single-engine plane.”
There were whispered murmurs.
“There was a dead body in the cockpit.”
Outright grumblings could now be heard.
“There was also treasure in the plane—money, jewelry, and some bonds. Though I probably should have left it, I decided to bring it down the hill. Just in case. I mean, the plane might have caught fire, right?”
The group partook in a common intake of breath. Eyes began to shine. They understood the extenuating circumstances. We were all poor.
“We have it here in the safe in the back of the bar.” I hoped that was true.
As I had anticipated, utter pandemonium erupted. People were hugging and jumping up and down, screaming and beating each other on the backs. A couple old-timers lapsed into Gaelic and began shouting clan war cries. Some wanted the safe opened at once so a count could be made. I had never seen such a scene. And it kept on going, no one willing to give up the happy moment to hear the bad news that they knew was coming.
“I ain’t heard of no train crash,” Whisky Jack bellowed suddenly. “We ain’t got a train, do we?”
“Plane crash!” everyone around him corrected, but to no avail.
“Oy!” Samuel intervened when he saw that I had more to say and was looking at my gun again.
Eventually, there was quiet. This time it was an expectant quiet. We, more than most people, knew that there were no free lunches. Now they had to hear about the catch.
“And it’s up to us to do the right thing—which is the legal thing—and give the treasure back, or, of course, we could do the wrong thing and keep it for ourselves. But we all must agree on a course of action because there are risks either way. After all, people who have treasures and lose them are apt to also have friends and insurance companies who will come looking for them. This guy, maybe from the States, could be someone very nasty or powerful.”
Again, the room burst into complete bedlam. I was pretty sure which side of the right and wrong issue the town was weighing in on. I heard Harry McIntyre ask his friend Billy Jones what he was going to do with his share of the money. Billy replied he was putting in a hot tub. This time, all it took was raising my hand to gain the room’s attention.
“Leaving the money aside, there is still the issue of the dead body to deal with,” I mentioned. “And the plane. It’s hidden now but will stand out come the melt if anyone flies over. We can’t move it, not without cutting down half the forest, and dismantling it would be a nightmare. And if we wait for someone to spot it from the air, there will be awkward questions about why we didn’t call it in. It’s right under the Wings’ flight path.”
The room began to settle down again. After a minute or two it was quiet. Everyone seemed to be in a state of solemn thought and contemplation, when Big John himself broke the silence.
“I say we call the Mounties to come collect the body, and keep the treasure for ourselves. After all, it’s the fair thing to do.”
Fair? I didn’t see how he had arrived at that conclusion.
There were several utterances of “Aye” mixed with “Amen” and one “Dude!” from around the room accompanied by nodding heads of approval. A few looked unconvinced—and that would include me—but were quickly won over by their peers. The line about it being the decent thing to do for the deceased was especially effective in obtaining their agreement. We have all lost family and are not heartless, just avaricious.
“But what will the Mounties do?” This was from Judy the Flowers. “Will they just get the body and leave?”
“It was an accident. I don’t know why they would stay. I guess it depends on if they suspect it was anything except a mishap, and I don’t see how it could be.” I shrugged. None of us was qualified to give an accurate personality assessment of an outsider or their actions, particularly someone in law enforcement. Obviously, we have little practice predicting behavior in strangers. The Wings was maybe more qualified than most of us since he visited outside town, but the Wings also believes that aliens live among us—and I don’t mean foreign nationals.
“Does this mean we can pave the main street this summer?” Amy the Braids called out. “The road is a damned disgrace.”
“There you go again, wanting to expand your own front porch at the expense of what this town should really be focusing on,” Harry McIntyre hollered back, and everyone waited for him to drop the immortal line. “The needs of the good folk who live outside of town.”
I met Wendell Thunder’s eyes and smiled a little. This was an old fight and he refused to be drawn in.
This specific squabble grew into a much more general squabble between the in-towners and the out-of-towners. Which regressed, naturally, to a debate over who was an in-towner and who was an out-of-towner. Ultimately, no one agreed on anything that was said other than two things: that we should keep and share the treasure, and that we should call the Mounties and let them deal with the dead pilot in the plane. I made note of this and, grabbing Big John’s arm, pulled him aside.
“Big John, I’m going to ask you to do something really important,” I told him. “Again.”
“Oh no, here it comes. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“It’s like I said before. I need for you to make this call to the Mounties,” I explained, my expression serious.
“Why?” was his predictable response. “You know I’m not good with strangers.”
“Because, I can’t afford to get involved with the law,” I declared flatly. “I don’t think my troubles from home followed me, but I can’t be sure. You’re the mayor. You have the phone. It makes sense for you to call. They probably won’t ask for a
lot of details anyway. Maybe they will just tell us to call the ambulance from Little Fork.”
Big John paused in thought. I sensed that the crowd within the bar had also paused to watch and listen. It probably didn’t take long for him to decide, but to me the intervening seconds stretched like hours. I was beginning to worry that I had already lost my case when he shocked me out of my anxiety with a reply.
“Alright, but you’ll have to tell me what to say, in case they do ask questions.”
I was surprised that he had agreed so easily, having no love for the law himself, and nearly said so.
“And you’ll have to remember to say it just right,” I warned. “I can write it all down, if you want.”
“Daddy? Now what are you two up to?” Judy the Flowers interjected.
Before I could stop him, Big John spoke just as calmly and confidently as he did the last time.
“Oh, I just agreed to pretend that I found the plane and the dead body.”
“You did what?” the Flowers said in surprise.
“And you need to call soon,” I added, lest we start counting our loot and forget. “The plane can be seen from the air now.”
The Flowers stood arms crossed and slack jawed in exasperation. I looked to Big John feeling of gratitude, even fondness, that I hadn’t felt in years. He was looking out for me.
“Don’t you think you should include me in such decisions?” the Flowers asked sternly. “You’ve no more guile than a new-laid egg. They’ll know you’re lying.”
“Why, eh? I’m just doing my duty. And if I’m the one talking with the Mounties, there’s less likelihood that somebody might slip up and mention the missing treasure.” He looked me in the eyes and my cheeks colored. Well, he was right. I had a bad feeling about the money we had taken and would be happier reporting it and hoping for a reward.
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