The Royal Wulff Murders by Keith McCafferty

Author:Keith McCafferty
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781101560341
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2012-02-15T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Wild West

Slightly drunk on Scotch and the prospect of enough money to move out of his office and wash in a shower instead of the copper trickle from the cultural center’s bathroom spigots, Stranahan greeted each dinner guest with a hearty jocularity that really wasn’t his nature.

The Sinclairs were the first to arrive. Tony, the husband, had a firm handshake and an air of being the voice of better judgment in any room he entered. Stranahan liked the man despite misgivings—Sinclair lived in the house upriver where Sean had seen light shining from what he thought were binoculars on the day he met Sheriff Ettinger—and immediately fell into a conversation with Sinclair that started out about fishing, segued into Montana’s environmental politics and the uproar over wolf reintroduction, then found its way back to higher ground as they debated fly patterns and presentations. He found his eyes darting past Sinclair’s shoulder to his wife, Eva, whose sign language was answered in tentative hand movements from Summersby’s wife. Summersby had mentioned that Ann was learning to sign. He’d said if there was a neighbor who spoke Pekingese, Ann would have booked a tutor. This far off the track a woman needed her friends.

Ann caught Stranahan’s eye and winked conspiratorially. He winked back.

“…sheriff and…”

Stranahan’s ears pricked up. He hadn’t been listening.

Sinclair went on: “Said they wanted to check the pond. My guess is it had something to do with that man who drowned downriver. Didn’t give a damn about the antelope, though.”

There was a rap at the porch door. Stranahan was nearest and opened it.

“Let me guess. You’re that painter fella.”

A darkly tanned man took Stranahan’s outstretched hand. He seemed vaguely familiar.

“Lucas Ventura,” the man said in a chesty voice. “Call me ‘Lucky.’”

“Sean Stranahan. Did I see you at the TU banquet last Sunday?”

“Guilty,” the man said.

Lucas Ventura was about Stranahan’s height, thick through the shoulders, with black hair combed straight back to reveal a pronounced widow’s peak. The V on his forehead was bracketed by heavy eyebrows; his manicured goatee arrowed down toward a swatch of chest hair that erupted from the collar of a lavender fishing shirt. FISH WORSHIP. IS IT WRONG? read the logo on the shirt. Stranahan thought Ventura looked like a jovial Satan. Forty or so.

“Tony,” Ventura said, looking past Stranahan.

Sinclair said, “Where’re the kids? We’ve missed them this summer.”

“Ex-wife issues. Don’t get married, that’s my advice. Too late for you, Tony, but”—Ventura turned to Stranahan—“maybe hope for you. I used to say ‘Keep your dick wet and your flies dry.’ Now I’m regretting taking my advice.”

“You look like you do a lot of it… fishing, that is,” Stranahan said. The ovals of skin underneath Ventura’s eyes were light where his sunglasses protected them.

“A dabbler in the art.” Ventura made a dismissive wave with his hand.

“Don’t believe him,” said Sinclair. “Lucky was runner-up in the one-fly contest. Imagine how those guides in Jackson felt taking a backseat to a Hollywood movie producer.”

Ventura’s voice was self-deprecating. “Minor leaguer, retired.

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