Murder Passes the Buck (9 page)

“
How do you explain away the footprints coming from the creek, Einstein?
”

“
Chester
’
s.
”

“
What rifle was it fired from?
”
I asked.

“
Top one in the gun rack.
”

“
Didn
’
t I tell you someone put a weapon in there after Chester died?
”

“
I only had the shell tested to prove you wrong,
”
my son said.
“
And you
’
re wrong. Nobody put a rifle back. You
’
re wrong.
”

“
Building evidence against me?
”

“
I don
’
t need to, you built it against yourself.
”

Blaze and I were having a stare-down. We used to have stare-downs when he was a kid, but those were for fun. This was different. Blaze
’
s stare was telling me I was old and feeble-minded and a pain in the backside. My stare was saying he sure wasn
’
t Clint Eastwood or Mel Gibson. More like Don Knotts in Mayberry RFD. And a lousy son to boot.

He looked away first.

It was snowing hard outside by the time the table was cleared and the dishes washed and put away. Star roared away on her ATV, and Grandma Johnson headed for the bathroom. Little Donny slept like a baby on the couch, and Blaze sat in a chair, a pained expression on his face like he
’
d eaten one

piece of pie too much.

“
One of these days,
”
I said to Mary after Grandma closed the bathroom door,
“
I
’
m going to tell her off.
”

“
You think I
’
m deaf,
”
Grandma Johnson called.
“
I can hear a cooked noodle hit the floor from across the house, and I heard that.
”

Mary and I laughed, and I took a good look at her. She was plain, all right
— nobody would ever call her pretty — but she had a rosy face, like she was happy all the time. She and Blaze were having some trouble with one of their daughters. I keep telling them she
’
s just young.

I remember being young, and it
’
s a tough business. I wouldn
’
t go back there for all the Christmas trees in Tamarack County, although I wouldn
’
t mind shaving off a year or two. But being sixty-six has its advantages. You don
’
t let anyone tell you what
’
s what any more, and you don
’
t have to pay so much attention to laws and rules. Break one and everyone just chalks it up to hardening of the brain. I like that.

At least I did until Blaze decided I really did have hardening of the brain.

Before drifting off to sleep, I realized I
’
d forgotten to use my word for the day. I guess I was thrown off by Blaze
’
s disloyalty to his

own mother.

I have more on my mind these days than I used to.

_Four

Word for the Day

PICAYUNE (PIK uh YOON) adj.
Trivial or petty; small or small-minded.

Friday dawned cold and crisp, with a fresh blanket of snow on the ground. Little Donny was as good as new. He ate half a pound of bacon and three fried eggs, and was on his second cup of coffee when he remembered Carl
’
s station wagon. He scrambled up and ran outside, forgetting his coat. He stood there a while staring at the car, then came in, stomping his boots on the rug, and collapsed at the kitchen table cradling his head in his hands.
“
What am I going to tell Carl?
”
“
I called him last night and told him you
’
d bring his station wagon back today,
”
I said.
“
You can clean it up some.
”

“
The whole thing
’
s a blur.
”
Little Donny had a knot on his forehead the size of a

baseball where he
’
d hit his head on the car window.

“
That big old buck kicked you in the head,
”
I lied.
“
That
’
s why you can
’
t remember much. What do you remember? Anything at all?
”

Little Donny didn
’
t answer. He groaned and went back to rocking his head. If Little Donny didn
’
t remember getting zapped, I was home free. George would never tell.

“
It happens sometimes. Nothing to b
e ashamed of. You fire at a deer
’
I explained,
“
and you don
’
t know it, but the bullet just sort of grazes him, and then he plays possum or he
’
s just stunned. Could have happened to anyone.
”

I instantly regretted saying stunned. It might trigger Little Donny
’
s memory.

Little Donny looked at me through his fingers, then went back to rocking.

“
Your Grandpa Barney lost one that way,
”
I continued.
“
A nice eight-pointer he shot out at the blind. He went to get the tractor to pull it out of the woods, and when he got back it was gone. Just up and ran off.
”

Little Donny wasn
’
t taking in anything I said.

I felt tired and stiff from cooking and entertaining company and tromping around on the investigation trail, and decided to

head to my deer blind behind the house.

I use the blind as a retreat rather than for hunting. When the kids were little, I
’
d pull my gun from the rack and trudge out there while Barney babysat. No one ever thought to ask me why I never shot anything, but I think Barney knew. Old habits die hard, and so I still spend time there whenever I feel a need to get away from the rest of the world.

I needed to wind down and do some thinking about Chester
’
s murder and my approaching court date.

George was working on the hole in the barn. His rattlesnake cowboy hat was all I could see as I shuffled by.

“
Hey, George.
”

He raised his head and tipped his hat.

“
I
’
m going to take a shot at Big Buck,
”
I said, lifting my gun, and George nodded.

The air smelled like burning wood, my favorite smell. It was nippy out and I could see my breath fogging around my face. I wore long underwear under my hunting clothes, and I turned down the earflaps on my hat when I felt my ears begin to sting. I could hear my feet swishing through the fresh snow as I approached the shack. Apples and corn that I had thrown in a pile had been whittled down to next to nothing, and deer tracks crisscrossed everywhere.

I leaned the gun in the corner of the shack and started the propane heater, then settled into the worn La-Z-Boy to watch. I could hear wind whistling against the shack and the propane heater popping into high gear. Within minutes it was toasty warm inside the shack.

When I woke up, the last of the apples and corn had been eaten and half the day was gone. I stood and shook out my stiff joints, and admitted to myself that I wasn
’
t a spring chicken anymore.

I replenished the apples and corn from a well-stocked barrel in the corner, closed up, and trudged back to get ready for Chester
’
s funeral.

At three o
’
clock, I picked up Cora Mae and headed for Lacken
’
s Funeral Home on the outskirts of town.

“
I told Kitty we
’
d pick her up,
”
Cora Mae said.

“
No problem,
”
I said, wondering how we were going to stuff her into the cab.

Kitty still sets her hair in pin curls, which went out of style a hundred years ago, and for good reason. Her short gray hair sticks out under bobby pins every which way like it
’
s spring-loaded. She always has her head wired up to come visiting and I couldn
’
t

help wondering who was going to get to see the final product if not Cora Mae and me. Thinking back, I remember only a handful of times seeing Kitty without pin curls
— weddings and funerals, mostly.

Since this was a funeral, we were in for a treat. Kitty waddled out without her bobby pins. She had combed through the front of her hair, but when she turned around to close her door, I noticed she had forgotten to brush out the back.

Kitty
’
s overweight, always has been, and gravity
’
s winning. Blubber hangs from her upper arms, and the front of her knees are dimpled. She wears housedresses and never learned to keep her legs together, so you can see her garter straps where they connect to her stockings. Most people look away. It
’
s not a pretty sight.

We were all dressed in burial black. I hoped for two things tonight. One, to find the opportunity to talk to Chester
’
s son, Bill, and two, to see how Ed Lacken hid the hole in Chester
’
s forehead. Because Ed Lacken did the burying for everyone in the county, I hoped his work was still high quality. I wanted to be done up right when the time came. I know he did right by Barney.

Cora Mae was hoping for something entirely different.

“
I heard that Onni Maki is some stud muffin since he
’
s taking Viagra,
”
my friend said. She sat between Kitty and me and had her knees and arms crushed tight against her body. Kitty was a tight fit in any truck.

“
Onni Maki
’
s an old has-been,
”
I said, watching the road carefully in case I missed something in my first drive after dark.
“
Who
’
d want to see him naked?
”
I shuddered at the thought. We were all getting old and falling apart, but Onni Maki was falling apart faster than most of us.

“
He looks like a plucked turkey,
”
Kitty added, and I laughed.

“
That
’
s not true, and I aim to get some of the action,
”
Cora Mae insisted.
“
Doesn
’
t come around these parts often.
”

“
There used to be a lot of rumors floating around about him when he was younger,
”
Kitty said, shifting her weight.
“
Onni
’
s always been a wild one. Fist fighting, drinking heavy, women.
”
Kitty frowned in concentration.
“
I
’
ll remember it all eventually.
”

I shook my head.
“
Kitty, you know everything about everybody. Where do you get your information?
”

Kitty snorted.
“
Here and there. I keep alert. Call it self-preservation. The more you know about a person, the better your position is. Information is like gold bullions; it