Rainier. Dill showed me from the top floor of the mansion. Are there other viewpoints out here?”
Walt grabbed a pencil and circled two spots. “They’re a climb. If you go, I’ll go with you, or a couple of the older boys. With the overnight temps, you don’t want to get stuck out there.”
I smiled into his worried eyes. “Maybe in the spring. Just planning ahead. Okay if I borrow this?”
Walt’s lips flattened, just a little, but enough. He knew I wasn’t telling the whole truth. “Nora—” he murmured. “It’s Hank, isn’t it? What’s going on — besides a couple disgruntled former employees?”
“Des talked to you?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.
“And Etherea. And Bob. And Gus.” Walt tipped his head, a tiny smile rippling across his face. Right — the neighborhood information relay. Operational at speeds faster than light.
I sucked in a deep breath. “Skip is what’s going on. Hank had — has — some suspicions. I need to—” I held up my hand at the warning look on Walt’s face, “check them out. You won’t be able to persuade me not to, so let’s not go there.” I rested a hand on his arm. “I’m the one with the best shot at this, better than Des, even. Because I knew Skip. I lived in his orbit for several years. The passwords—” I bit my lip. There were some things Walt didn’t know about what I’d found in my husband’s bank accounts and what I’d done with the money. “Well, I think Skip means for me to be the one investigating.”
“He might well be dead, Nora,” Walt whispered. “You know that, right? I don’t mean to be harsh, but are you sure the risk you’re taking is worth it?”
I nodded. “Because it’s bigger than just him. Lots bigger.”
CHAPTER 7
If there was one person on the property who could help me with something illegal and not bat an eyelash of conscience, it was Dwayne Cotton. Dwayne makes moonshine for a living. Not a great living, but I guessed he was at least in his eighties, so his occupation had provided sufficiently for the meager essentials he required.
He was an undocumented tenant of the poor farm with an undeclared but mutually understood non-interference pact with Walt. They waffled between looking out for each other and ignoring each other as needed. Basically, Dwayne was squatting, but had been so long it was like he was grandfathered in.
Eli, on the other hand, idolized Dwayne, and was in the process of learning heaps of mountain man skills from the old codger. Things like disappearing without a sound, tracking, navigating without a compass, and whittling. Both Walt and I hoped that distilling wasn’t on the educational agenda.
I detoured off one of the many rutted tire track lanes on the property and headed into the bush, letting my feet land where they may and creating plenty of crackling and stomping advance warning. Dwayne has a rusty old shotgun and isn’t afraid to brandish it about. To the best of my knowledge, he’s never actually fired it, but if he did, the results on both ends could be disastrous.
I approached his hut and yoohooed.
“I hear ya,” a firm voice called from inside.
Dwayne stepped onto his porch — wood pallet slats sunk in the mud with a partially supported overhang. I say partially because one of the posts tilted to a degree that belied physics. But the whole thing was flimsy enough that it probably wouldn’t cause much more than a concussion if it collapsed on Dwayne’s head. Just the same, I preferred to stand out in the open.
Dwayne was wiping his hands on a filthy apron tied around his waist. With his long, scraggly white beard and gnarled fingers, he could have been an old-timey blacksmith or cobbler. Since none of his clothing was worth preserving and already well past universal standards of cleanliness, I wasn’t sure what the point of the apron was.
“Afternoon.” Dwayne nodded. “Heard you
Walt grabbed a pencil and circled two spots. “They’re a climb. If you go, I’ll go with you, or a couple of the older boys. With the overnight temps, you don’t want to get stuck out there.”
I smiled into his worried eyes. “Maybe in the spring. Just planning ahead. Okay if I borrow this?”
Walt’s lips flattened, just a little, but enough. He knew I wasn’t telling the whole truth. “Nora—” he murmured. “It’s Hank, isn’t it? What’s going on — besides a couple disgruntled former employees?”
“Des talked to you?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.
“And Etherea. And Bob. And Gus.” Walt tipped his head, a tiny smile rippling across his face. Right — the neighborhood information relay. Operational at speeds faster than light.
I sucked in a deep breath. “Skip is what’s going on. Hank had — has — some suspicions. I need to—” I held up my hand at the warning look on Walt’s face, “check them out. You won’t be able to persuade me not to, so let’s not go there.” I rested a hand on his arm. “I’m the one with the best shot at this, better than Des, even. Because I knew Skip. I lived in his orbit for several years. The passwords—” I bit my lip. There were some things Walt didn’t know about what I’d found in my husband’s bank accounts and what I’d done with the money. “Well, I think Skip means for me to be the one investigating.”
“He might well be dead, Nora,” Walt whispered. “You know that, right? I don’t mean to be harsh, but are you sure the risk you’re taking is worth it?”
I nodded. “Because it’s bigger than just him. Lots bigger.”
CHAPTER 7
If there was one person on the property who could help me with something illegal and not bat an eyelash of conscience, it was Dwayne Cotton. Dwayne makes moonshine for a living. Not a great living, but I guessed he was at least in his eighties, so his occupation had provided sufficiently for the meager essentials he required.
He was an undocumented tenant of the poor farm with an undeclared but mutually understood non-interference pact with Walt. They waffled between looking out for each other and ignoring each other as needed. Basically, Dwayne was squatting, but had been so long it was like he was grandfathered in.
Eli, on the other hand, idolized Dwayne, and was in the process of learning heaps of mountain man skills from the old codger. Things like disappearing without a sound, tracking, navigating without a compass, and whittling. Both Walt and I hoped that distilling wasn’t on the educational agenda.
I detoured off one of the many rutted tire track lanes on the property and headed into the bush, letting my feet land where they may and creating plenty of crackling and stomping advance warning. Dwayne has a rusty old shotgun and isn’t afraid to brandish it about. To the best of my knowledge, he’s never actually fired it, but if he did, the results on both ends could be disastrous.
I approached his hut and yoohooed.
“I hear ya,” a firm voice called from inside.
Dwayne stepped onto his porch — wood pallet slats sunk in the mud with a partially supported overhang. I say partially because one of the posts tilted to a degree that belied physics. But the whole thing was flimsy enough that it probably wouldn’t cause much more than a concussion if it collapsed on Dwayne’s head. Just the same, I preferred to stand out in the open.
Dwayne was wiping his hands on a filthy apron tied around his waist. With his long, scraggly white beard and gnarled fingers, he could have been an old-timey blacksmith or cobbler. Since none of his clothing was worth preserving and already well past universal standards of cleanliness, I wasn’t sure what the point of the apron was.
“Afternoon.” Dwayne nodded. “Heard you
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