Cantina Valley (A Ben Adler Mystery Book 1)

by Trevor Scott

  “What did he say?” Maggi asked desperately.

  “Hang on.” Ben cranked over the engine and pulled around, turning back toward the way they had entered the Compound.

  “Wait,” she said. “I need to see my brother.”

  Ben kept driving down the hill until Maggi pulled on his arm. “Tavis is staying here,” he said, “but he’s not here at this time.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because the guy told me.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I told you I can tell when someone is lying,” Ben said. “This guy is hiding something, but he was telling the truth about your brother. He’s with some friends picking mushrooms in the Siuslaw. They have no cell service, no land line and no internet.”

  “Just like you.”

  “Right.”

  “What is wrong with you people?” She stopped herself. “Wait. Mushrooms? My brother doesn’t like those. He ate a false Morel once and got really sick.”

  “People can change, Maggi. But I just heard your stomach growling. You need to eat. I know a little mom and pop place close to here.”

  •

  Kevin waited until the nosy neighbor had gone down the hill before heading back into the main lodge. Once inside he met up with his partner, a former Marine.

  “What was that about?” his partner asked.

  “A guy named Ben Adler asking about Guff,” Kevin said. “Guff’s sister was along for the ride.”

  “You know this Adler?”

  “Knew him. He took over his parents’ place once they died. Retired Air Force.”

  “He didn’t look like a pilot.”

  “No. I heard he was a security policeman before becoming a special agent with their OSI.”

  “Really? Those guys were really helpful to us in the Gulf. Decent interrogators.”

  That’s exactly what Kevin remembered as well. “He could be a problem or very helpful.”

  “Which way will he go?”

  “Hell if I know. He’s off the grid like us.”

  “Where’d you tell him Guff went?”

  Kevin smiled. “Mushroom picking.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  “I know. I had a feeling Ben Adler would know a lie after everything he saw over there. When Guff gets back, tell him to call his damn sister.”

  11

  The two of them ate at the Cozy Inn a half a mile off of U.S. Highway 99, the old main north/south highway from Canada to Mexico. The place was technically outside of Cantina Valley, but not by much. Once Interstate 5 was built, many of the smaller communities on 99 got smaller, and those lucky enough to be right off the interstate grew larger—the consequences of big government central planning.

  After eating, Maggi was on her phone looking up something. Ben wasn’t sure she had bought the mushroom picking story. But at least she had seen her brother’s vehicle. That was some consolation to her.

  “This is interesting,” Maggi said.

  Ben drank down the last of his Ninkasi Total Domination IPA. “What’s that?”

  “Tax records for the Compound. They’ve had quite the past. Do you know it’s six hundred and forty acres?”

  “A full section? No, I didn’t know that. Who owns it?”

  “Good question. It’s held in a trust. It has been since the nineties. You think they might be squatting?”

  “I doubt it. Kevin and his sister Robin lived there in high school. Any way to look into the trust?”

  “Not easy,” she said.

  “Does it matter? We found your brother.”

  Maggi shook her head vehemently. “We didn’t see him. Didn’t talk with him.”

  “I don’t think he’s being held against his will, Maggi.”

  “Maybe not. But he could still be in trouble.”

  “I told Kevin to have your brother call you.”

  She put her phone away and set her hand onto his. “Thank you for your help.”

  “No problem. Are you heading back to Portland?”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me, Ben Adler?”

  “We found Tavis. What more can we do? He’s a grown ass man.”

  From the look on her face, though, this wasn’t over. Something was bothering her. And he had to admit that his stomach wasn’t exactly settled. This had nothing to do with the greasy patty melt and IPA fighting it out in his gut. No. Something wasn’t right at that Compound.

  By the time Ben drove back to his house it was late afternoon and they were both extremely tired. He could tell that Maggi was still very distraught, and probably didn’t want to face driving back to Portland, only to end up in her townhome with a couple of cats. So he let her lay down in his guest bedroom, which had been his bedroom throughout his youth.

  While she slept, Ben rummaged through his vinyl record collection. There had to be five hundred LPs in alphabetical order on the shelf next to the old stereo. Most had been his parents’ collection, but some were his own from his high school years. The collection included everything from classic rock to classical music. He found a nice recording of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and set it on the turntable. Keeping the volume low, he sat down on the sofa and closed his eyes. His mind reeled in dissonance with the soothing strings of the Italian master. Maybe Maggi was right. Although they had found her brother, they had not actually seen the man. Was this still his problem? Not really. He had done as she asked. Despite his angst, Ben managed to fall asleep.

  A knock on the door startled Ben awake. He glanced to the stereo turntable and saw that the first side had finished. Then he turned to the front door and saw a smiling Sonya. He jumped up and hurried to the door, finally remembering he had set up a dinner date with her.

  He opened the door and said, “Sorry. I dozed off.”

  “You said six, right?” Sonya asked. She was holding two bottles of wine, a white and a red.

  “Yes, of course. Come in.”

  Sonya stepped in from the wetness, handed the wine bottles to Ben, and immediately took off her running shoes. She wore those tight black yoga pants again, which drove Ben wild. Unlike some who wore those, Sonya actually deserved them, since she did yoga daily, along with her running. She took off her jacket and started to put it on the rack by the front door.

  “That’s not your jacket,” Sonya said. Then she looked out the front door and added, “And that’s not your BMW.”

  Before Ben could explain, he saw a flash of movement to his side. He turned and saw Maggi coming out of the spare bedroom.

  Sonya looked confused.

  Ben quickly introduced the two women, explaining each of their relationships. Sonya was tough to describe. He settled on friends, but he was sure that Maggi understood that Ben was understating the situation.

  He smiled and said, “What say I open one of these bottles?”

  “I’ll do it,” Sonya said, taking the bottles back and walking into the kitchen.

  Maggi moved closer to Ben. “I’m sorry. I’ll take off immediately and drive back to Portland.”

  “No, you won’t,” Sonya said from the kitchen. “The temperature has dropped. I’m driving an all-wheel-drive Subaru and nearly hit the ditch too many times to count. You won’t make it a half mile with that Beemer. It’s a skating rink out there.”

  Ben and Maggi went into the kitchen and Sonya already had the Oregon pinot noir breathing.

  “This is a reserve from Springdale,” Sonya said.

  “She’s a sommelier,” Ben explained to Maggi.

  “That’s great,” Maggi said. “I’m afraid I don’t have a discerning tongue.”

  Ben smiled.

  “Get your mind out of the gutter,” Sonya said.

  He went to the refrigerator and said, “All right. I promised Sonya smoked fish. I have cheese from two creameries on the Oregon Coast, along with a bunch of crackers. Would that work?”

  Both of the women agreed.

  “Why don’t you find some music while I put this together,�
� Ben said.

  Sonya poured Ben a glass of wine and then scooped up the bottle and two glasses, heading to the living room, followed closely by Maggi.

  He pulled everything out of the refrigerator that he needed. As he worked he kept glancing into the living room, watching the two women drink wine and talk. Sonya had simply turned over the Vivaldi album and the soothing sound of strings filled the air. He felt like a complete tool. Somehow he had forgotten that Sonya was supposed to come over for dinner. Maybe finding Tavis McGuffin had consumed him more today than he wanted to admit.

  The women laughed and then looked at him in the kitchen. What in the hell was so funny? He took a significant sip of the pinot noir. It was fantastic. That was about the only way he could describe wine. Either he liked it or he didn’t like it. Price didn’t matter.

  Finally, he brought a couple of platters out to the living room, setting them on the coffee table in front of the women. Then he went back for napkins and his wine. He sat on the floor across from Sonya and Maggi.

  “What was so funny?” Ben asked them.

  The women shared a glance, but Sonya responded. “We were discussing your conspiratorial mind.”

  Great. “I’ve told you it’s only paranoia if you don’t know as much as I do about our government.” He shifted his eyes from Sonya to Maggi, but he wasn’t sure if either of them were buying it.

  “This smoked fish is excellent,” Maggi said.

  “Have you tried any of his other meat?” Sonya asked.

  Maggi held back a smile and said, “No, what’s it like?”

  “His sausage is to die for,” Sonya said.

  “All right,” Ben said. “Now you’re just messing with me.”

  “What?” Sonya said. “Your sausage is good. He also pickles just about everything, including eggs. His pickles are amazing. We use them at our winery. We trade a lot of wine for his food. Recently, we cooked his geese for our club members.”

  “Fowl murder,” Ben said. “Dinner and a mystery.”

  “Really,” Maggi said. “That sounds like fun.”

  “Yeah, but their murders are too easy to figure out,” Ben said.

  Sonya pointed at him. “For you. He’s been banned from participating for life.”

  “I told them I would write a mystery for them to use, but they don’t seem to want my help.”

  “It’s not up to me,” Sonya said. “I think the owners are concerned it will be too difficult.”

  “I could dumb it down,” he said.

  “Ha, ha.” Sonya poured more wine for each, finishing the first bottle.

  They finished the meal and switched from classical music to classic rock. Ben was in the kitchen rinsing dishes and putting them into the dishwasher, when Sonya came in and nudged up behind him. “She’s a great woman,” she whispered into his ear.

  “Yeah, she is.”

  “You’d like to sleep with her. Maybe you already have.”

  He turned to her and said, “No, I haven’t.”

  “But you’d like to.”

  How could he answer that? It was a no win proposition.

  “I understand,” Sonya said. “We’re not officially exclusive. She’s hot. I might even do her.”

  He wasn’t sure if that was an offer or if she was just messing with him. He guessed the later.

  By the time they had gotten through the second bottle of wine, along with a third from his supply, Ben flicked his outside light and saw that the freezing rain was weighing heavy on the pines.

  Ben went back to the living room, put another log on the modest fire burning in the fireplace. Then he took a seat on the floor across from the two women on the sofa.

  Sonya said, “How does it look?”

  “It looks like the two of you aren’t going anywhere until morning,” he said. “I’ll need to have the chainsaw handy in the morning. The ice will knock down a lot of trees.”

  “Maggi was telling me about the Compound,” Sonya said. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “That’s because you’re relatively new to the area,” he said. “By the time your parents moved here, all the strange things going on there were nearly over.”

  “Do you think a radical militia moved in?” Sonya asked.

  Ben gazed at Maggi before answering. “I don’t think so. But something isn’t quite right there. Hopefully, Maggi will get a call from her brother and she can ask him what’s going on.”

  Maggi got up and said, “I’m feeling pretty tired. Do you mind if I call it a night?”

  He got up and went to the back with her, finding a towel and extra blanket for her. Then they shared a smile and said goodnight.

  When he got back to the living room, Sonya was gone. He turned toward his bedroom and saw her standing inside, completely naked. Ben didn’t need a better invitation. He turned off the lights in the living room and found Sonya sprawled out on his bed seductively.

  12

  Deputy Sheriff Lester Dawson had tried to find Father Murphy at the church earlier in the day, but he wasn’t there. Saturday mass had been finished about thirty minutes prior to Lester’s arrival. As a lapsed Catholic, Lester should have known the schedule. So he had gone to the rectory next door and spoke with the housekeeper, who said the priest had gone to the Grange Hall a couple miles down the road for a dinner and bingo. Father Murphy would be calling the numbers, she had said.

  Now, Lester sat in his department rig as rain pounded his truck. He had gotten reports from dispatch that the rain was starting to freeze with the falling temperatures, so he had a small window of opportunity. On nights like this in Western Oregon, the roads would turn to ice rinks, with one call after the next reporting auto accidents. Officially he was off, but he would still feel compelled to help people. That was his job.

  He grabbed an envelope and shoved it inside his coat. Then he got out and covered his head with his Resistol, checking his footing in the parking lot of the Grange Hall. It was starting to get slippery. The parking lot was nearly packed with parish patron vehicles. A lot of vans, he noticed. Many Hispanic families bought vans to accommodate their large brood.

  Lester got inside and wiped the rain from his overcoat and shook out his hat. Moving into the inner hall, he saw that the place was very full. Folks sat at long tables blotting out bingo cards with markers.

  Father Murphy sat at a small table in the front. He was a short man—the tallest leprechaun in the room, Lester thought with an inner chuckle. The priest first called out the numbers in Spanish and then switched to English, just in case he had anyone in the crowd who didn’t speak Spanish. From the looks of it, Lester guessed only a few fit that category, and those were mostly octogenarians.

  Moving along one wall, Lester tried to be as unobtrusive as possible. But soon people started to stare at him. As he suspected, a number in attendance must have been illegal aliens. This wasn’t a huge problem, since his department had been instructed to ignore legal status as long as laws had not been broken. Murder was different. Maybe that’s why his boss had put him in charge of the investigation. The sheriff would have known his normal detectives wouldn’t want to wander through these places asking questions.

  Lester knew Father Murphy a little. Years ago he had worked under the monsignor at the largest parish in Eugene, until he got his church in Junction City. The priest had baptized Lester’s youngest daughter some twelve years ago. But that was a lifetime ago. If Lester were to go to confession now, he would be there for days with contrition and even longer in penance.

  Somebody yelled Bingo and the crowd went into a disappointing despair, with each saying how many numbers they were missing.

  Father Murphy locked eyes with Lester, so he said something in Spanish and got up from his chair, coming across the front to meet with the deputy sheriff.

  “Lester Dawson,” the priest said, reaching out his hand.

  Lester shook with the priest and said, “You remember me?”

  “Of course,” the priest said. “I
see your wife and daughters at mass every Sunday. But I don’t see you.”

  “I know, father.” Lester ran his hand along the brim of his hat, wiping moisture from the surface. “I’m a bit tortured about my faith.”

  “That’s common, son.” With his patience, the priest would have made a good interrogator. Finally, Father Murphy said, “I’m guessing you are here for another reason.”

  “Yes, Father.” Lester pulled out the envelope from inside his coat. He slid a photo of his victim out and handed it to the priest. “Do you know this man?”

  The priest focused his bright blue eyes on the photo and said, “Is this the man found dead in Cantina Valley.”

  “Yes. You heard about this?”

  “Of course. We have parishioners from that valley.” The priest shook his head. “It’s hard to tell, Lester. The photo seems off in some way.”

  “It’s a rendering of sorts,” Lester said. “Someone shot the man in the back of his head. The bullet exited through his face, leaving a mess.”

  “I understand. You have a difficult job.”

  “Could you ask your parishioners to take a look?”

  “I can ask. But this could be a problem.”

  “I’m not asking about legal status,” Lester assured the priest.

  “We are all children of God, Lester. How can anyone be illegal?”

  Lester didn’t want to get into a philosophical discussion about immigration or the legality of the same. But he did need the priest’s help if he wanted to close this case.

  “Could you ask, Father?” Lester asked again. “I have extra copies of the photo. Maybe you could pass them around.” He took out a stack of photographs and handed them to the priest.

  Father Murphy took the photos and said, “I will ask.”

  Lester leaned back against the far wall watching the reaction of the crowd while the priest asked the parishioners in Spanish if they had seen this man before. It took a while for the photos to pass from one person to the next. Eyes shifted from the photos to Lester against the wall. Now he wished he had brought a couple of other deputies to observe the reaction. There were just too many people here for Lester to review everyone.