Dark Tiger (14 page)

Marty Dunlap, who'd been standing there with Robert watching, said, “That's fine. Nobody'll be in the guides' dining room this time of the day. You can use that. We'll make sure there's some fresh coffee.” He turned to Robert. “Why don't you go on up there, fill a carafe with coffee, put out some cream and sugar and mugs for them.”

Robert hesitated, then shrugged and headed up to the lodge. Calhoun guessed that Robert didn't appreciate being asked to do menial chores that the help should be doing, even—or maybe especially—if it was his own father who did the asking.

Calhoun and the sheriff strolled up to the lodge, went into the guides' dining room, and sat across the table from each other. Robert came in with the coffee. The sheriff poured his mug full, then handed the carafe to Calhoun, who filled a mug for himself.

The sheriff waited for Robert to leave the room. Then he leaned forward on his forearms and said, “You're a deputy sheriff. What're you doing up here?”

“I'm guiding,” Calhoun said. “That's what I mainly do. A fishing guide down in Portland. I help out Sheriff Dickman now and then when he needs a hand with something. I'm just a part-time unpaid deputy. It ain't my job or anything.”

“That's not how I heard it,” said the sheriff.

“Well,” said Calhoun, “I can't help what you might've heard. Give Sheriff Dickman a call, ask him. He'll tell you what I just told you.”

The sheriff shrugged. “I wasn't accusing you of anything. Just curious.”

“I'm here because one of their regular guides got called home. I'm filling in for a month because this is their busy season. That's all.”

The sheriff held up both hands. “Okay, okay. I believe you. That's what Marty told me. Except he didn't say anything about you being a deputy sheriff.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small leather-covered notebook. He opened it and squinted at it, then looked up at Calhoun. “Some people have told me that you were with Elaine Hoffman last night.”

“She and I sat on the dock for maybe half an hour after dinner, just talking, getting to know each other a little,” Calhoun said. He remembered the sound of Elaine's soft voice, her gentle smile. He was having a hard time with the idea that she was dead. “Why don't you tell me what happened to her and why you're arresting Franklin Redbird.”

“What did you talk about?”

Calhoun shrugged. “I don't remember. Not much. Fishing. Elaine told me how much she liked it here. Said it was the best job she ever had.”

“Did she mention having any problems with anybody?”

“Like Franklin Redbird, you mean?”

“Anybody,” said the sheriff.

“Actually, she said she'd had an argument of some kind with Franklin.”

“What'd she say they argued about?”

About McNulty
, Calhoun thought.
Franklin asked her about McNulty, and she said she didn't know anything about the man, and Franklin didn't believe her.

Calhoun wasn't ready to mention McNulty to this sheriff. “She didn't tell me what the issue was,” he said, “and I didn't ask. None of my business. I had the feeling it wasn't very important and that neither of them was overly upset about it.”

“Well,” said the sheriff, “Mr. Redbird was upset enough that he went to Ms. Hoffman's cabin sometime in the night while she was sleeping in her bed and plugged her three times in the chest with his .22.”

“You're sure it was him?”

The sheriff nodded. “We found his pistol in a drawer in his cabin. It had been recently fired, and three cartridges were missing from the clip.”

“What kind of pistol?”

“Colt Woodsman,” said the sheriff. “Look. I know you were out fishing with Redbird today. I assume you're friends and that you like him and can't believe he'd do something like this. Yet several people told me that they overheard him and Elaine Hoffman having a bad argument, and then the murder weapon turns up in his cabin. What do you think?”

“I think anybody could've put that gun in Franklin's cabin,” said Calhoun. “None of the guides lock their cabins. They don't even give us a key. You think Franklin is so stupid that he'd go shoot somebody and then stick the gun back in his own drawer?” He shook his head. “I also think folks could easily misunderstand when they overhear a conversation, think it's an argument when it isn't. You're right. I got to know Franklin pretty well, fishing with him today. You can learn a lot about a man, spending a day on the water with him. He's a peaceful man with a clear conscience.”

“Well, then, Mr. Calhoun, why don't you help me out. You're a deputy. You know how this works. If it wasn't Franklin Redbird, who could've done this?”

“Look,” said Calhoun, “I've barely been here twenty-four hours. Except for Franklin, and that half hour or so last night talking with Elaine, and a float plane flight with Curtis Swenson, I don't know anything about anybody up here. Oh, and
Marty interviewed me before he hired me. The others, I've barely said hello to. I have no idea about grudges or conflicts worth committing murder for.”

The sheriff picked up his coffee mug, took a sip, put it down, and looked at Calhoun. “People who heard Redbird and Ms. Hoffman arguing,” he said, “a couple of them told me that your name was mentioned.”

Calhoun shrugged. “I wouldn't know about that.”

“No? No idea why they might've been arguing about you?”

“No. Not a clue. When was this so-called argument?”

“Just before dinner last night.”

“Elaine and I didn't even meet each other until dinnertime. I'd met Franklin briefly before that. He came to my cabin to welcome me and to tell me he wanted to take me fishing.”

“That was it?”

“That was it,” said Calhoun. “We talked about fishing, that's all.”

The sheriff peered into his notebook again. Then he closed it and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Okay, Mr. Calhoun. I got no more questions for you right now. I guess if I come up with some later, I'll be able to find you.”

“I'll be here for a month or so.”

“Marty's going to have to scramble for guides,” said the sheriff, “with Elaine Hoffman dead and Franklin Redbird under arrest.” He pushed himself back from the table and stood up.

“What happened to Elaine?” said Calhoun. “Her body, I mean.”

“The coroner from St. Cecelia drove up, examined her, declared her dead, speculated that the three bullet holes in her chest were the cause of death, zipped her into a body bag, got Robert Dunlap to help him lug her out to his van, and took her back to St. Cecelia with him.”

“Did he speculate about the time of death?”

“Around midnight last night,” said the sheriff. “Give or take an hour or two.” He picked up his hat from where he'd put it on the table, fitted it onto his head, and turned for the door.

“Wait a minute, Sheriff,” said Calhoun. “About that Colt Woodsman. Your murder weapon.”

“What about it?”

“I own a Colt Woodsman. I kept it in the drawer of my bedside table. I'm wondering . . .”

“You think someone took your .22 and used it to murder Elaine Hoffman?”

“Could be,” said Calhoun. “They could've gone into my cabin during dinner or after that, when I was talking to Elaine out on the dock.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

Calhoun shrugged. “Because the Woodsman's a good murder weapon, I guess.”

The sheriff cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at Calhoun. “You said Franklin Redbird welcomed you and invited you to go fishing with him yesterday afternoon. Did he come into your cabin?”

Calhoun nodded. “We had a Coke.”

“What about your Colt? Might he have noticed it when he was there?”

“It was in the drawer of my bedside table. I don't see how he could've seen it. He didn't go prowling through my drawers when he was there.”

“Maybe you left the room while he was there?”

“There's only one room,” Calhoun said, “and I didn't leave it.”

The sheriff shrugged. “So maybe you mentioned something about the weapon to him.”

Calhoun shook his head. “No, I don't believe I did. He would've had no way to know about that gun. You got the wrong man.”

“If he went into your cabin and poked around, he'd have found it easily enough.”

Calhoun shrugged. “I suppose so. Anybody could've done that. The Colt was just sitting there in the drawer. Not exactly well hidden.”

“Well,” said the sheriff, “Colt stopped making the Woodsman .22 about thirty years ago, but it's still a pretty common sidearm around here. Why don't you take me to your cabin. Let's see if yours is still there.”

 

 

 

 

The sheriff and Calhoun walked along the path from the lodge to his cabin, with Ralph trotting on ahead of them. When they got there, the sheriff said, “Why don't you wait out here. I'll go in and check out that drawer where you put that Woodsman of yours.”

Calhoun shrugged. “Okay by me.” He snapped his fingers at Ralph. “You wait here with me.”

Ralph sat down.

The sheriff went inside. He came back out a few minutes later shaking his head.

“It's not there, huh?” said Calhoun.

“No gun in that drawer.”

“It's probably your murder weapon, then,” said Calhoun.

The sheriff looked hard at him. “Did you shoot Elaine Hoffman and plant the murder weapon in Franklin Redbird's cabin?”

“Me?” Calhoun shook his head. “No. Why would I do that?”

“That's for me to figure out, I guess,” said the sheriff.

“Neither of us did it,” Calhoun said. “Whoever planted the gun had to've done it while Franklin and I were out fishing.”

The sheriff gave a little shrug.

“You think I did it?” said Calhoun.

“I don't know. You could have. It looks like the murder weapon belongs to you.”

“I've got less motive than Franklin,” Calhoun said. “I only just met Elaine Hoffman. Why would I want to kill her?”

The sheriff shrugged again. “We'll figure that out.”

“So who you going to arrest here,” Calhoun said, “me or Franklin?”

“Him,” said the sheriff, “but I got a feeling you're not telling me everything, Mr. Calhoun, and when I figure out what it is you're not saying and why you're not saying it, maybe I'll come back and arrest you. Maybe I'll arrest you both, you and Redbird. Maybe you two have got some kind of conspiracy thing going on here, hm?”

“And
maybe
what you're going to figure out,” Calhoun said, emphasizing the
maybe
“is that neither of us did this.”

The sheriff shrugged. “Maybe so. We'll see.”

“You check the serial number on that gun. If it's mine, you'll see that it's properly registered. Also, you might want to remember, I'm the one who told you that the murder weapon could've belonged to me. I didn't need to do that.”

“I guess we would've figured it out pretty quick without your helpfulness,” said the sheriff, “looking up the gun's serial number in our computer files, seeing who it was registered to. It would've appeared more suspicious if you hadn't said anything.”

Calhoun nodded. “I guess you're right about that. I had no quarrel with Elaine Hoffman, though.”

“Franklin Redbird did.” The sheriff shook his head. “I'm
enjoying this chitchat, Mr. Calhoun, but it's growing repetitive, and I've got a prisoner to fly to Houlton for processing. I expect I'll be back here at Loon Lake before we're done with this case. So I'll be seeing you again.”

The sheriff touched the brim of his hat with his forefinger, turned, and headed back toward the dock.

Calhoun sat on the front steps of his cabin. Ralph came over and plopped his chin on Calhoun's knee. He scratched the dog's muzzle. “So how do you think all this is connected to McNulty?” he said.

Ralph didn't say anything.

“It's my fault, you know,” Calhoun said. “What happened to Elaine. Me asking about McNulty, and her having that argument with Franklin. It's got to have something to do with McNulty. I'm feeling awfully bad about Elaine. I liked her. I can't imagine somebody shooting her. A terrible thing. I feel bad about Franklin getting arrested, too, though I don't see how they can hold him very long if all they've got is some hearsay about an argument and that gun of mine that was obviously planted.”

Without lifting his chin, Ralph rolled up his eyes to give Calhoun a look of sympathy and understanding.

“But look at all we've learned,” said Calhoun, giving the dog's ears a rub. “We've learned that just mentioning McNulty's name around here is enough to get somebody riled up to the point of committing murder. We know we got a killer among us, and I'll be awfully surprised if it turns out to be Franklin Redbird. We can guess that Elaine knew something about McNulty, even though she said she didn't, and if she did, others probably do, too. All that's pretty good work for just being here twenty-four hours, wouldn't you say?”

Ralph didn't have much to say on the subject.

Calhoun looked at his watch. “Well, it's time for dinner.” He stood up. “Ready?”

Ralph knew the word “dinner.” The dog had an extensive vocabulary of words related to food. He scrambled quickly to his feet and started trotting down the path to the dining room.

 

Calhoun heard the guides talking as he and Ralph went down the short hallway to the dining room. Muffled, conspiratorial voices. He guessed there was plenty to gossip about, with Elaine getting shot and Franklin Redbird getting arrested and the sheriff questioning everybody.

The voices stopped suddenly when he and Ralph entered the room. “Evening,” he said, nodding to everybody as he took an empty seat.