Cantina Valley (A Ben Adler Mystery Book 1) (12 page)

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.

The priest continued to plead with the parishioners as they checked out the photo, and Lester guessed the padre was mentioning how this was not an immigration issue.

While the priest collected the photos, Lester noticed a younger woman get up from her chair and move to the outer hall.

Father Murphy came back to Lester and returned his photos.
 
“I’m sorry, Lester.
 
No luck.”

“That’s all right, Father.
 
It was a long shot.
 
By the way, you should tell your parishioners that the roads are starting to ice up.
 
You might want to cut this Bingo short.”

“Thank you, Lester.
 
I will.
 
And good luck with your investigation.”

Before leaving, Lester handed the priest his card.
 
“In case someone suddenly remembers something.”

Father Murphy nodded.

Lester wandered quickly toward the outer hall, hoping to catch the younger woman who had left suspiciously.
 
But he didn’t have to go far.
 
She was waiting for him out there, her arms over her chest in a self comforting gesture.
 
She was perhaps thirty—short and a bit pudgy.

“Did you get a chance to look at the photo?” Lester asked the woman.

She nodded quickly, her eyes shifting nervously toward the Bingo hall.

“Do you know this man?”

She still said nothing.

“You look frightened,” he said.
 
“Are you all right?”

A tear streaked her right cheek.

“You know this man,” Lester said.
 
“Who is it?”

After a long delay, she finally said, “My brother.”