Deeded For Death

By R.W. Weiss

Realtor Howard McClusky is found entangled in barbed wire with most of his face missing due to a shotgun blast. Why would such a nice young man be treated so unpleasantly? Sheriff Beatrice and retired detective Hugh Winslow tread the maze of unanswered questions in search of the answer. Their trail leads them through an entanglement of their own to discover a world-wide plot that endangers the eco system of several parts of the world. Of course, they couldn't have done it without the help of Aunt Kate, her beau Bert, and Hugh's two Malamute dogs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Class Act Books
• Release date: Jun 14, 2015

Book preview

Deeded For Death

A Hugh Winslow Mystery

by

R. W. Weiss

Published by

CLASS ACT BOOKS

121 Berry Hill Lane

Port Townsend, Washington 98368

www.classactbooks.com

Copyright  2015 by R.W. Weiss

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-938703-61-4

Credits

Cover Artist: Blaise Kilgallen

Editor: Leslie Hodges

Copy Editor: Anita York

Printed in the United States of America

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Other Hugh Winslow Mysteries from Class Act Books

Death Is Overdue

Chapter 1

Howard McClusky walked purposely between the black bark of the cottonwoods and the mottled hides of the aspen and scattered birch. He didn’t mind the constant drizzle, the little stream that kept running off the visor of his Budweiser cap, or the occasional chill that came when the rain squeezed between the back of his neck and his camouflage shirt. He moved instinctively, having hunted now for thirty some odd years. He moved like he was hunting pheasant, looked like he was hunting pheasant, but in truth hunting only for clearness of mind.

He’d stopped killing animals months ago but carried the shotgun out of habit. It gave his hands something to do. Just being out in the woods on this gray, wet day, smelling the mustiness of the wet woods, being away from the office and a chance to think things out was reward enough. He felt better already.

Then came the crack of branches and the rustling behind him. He knew without words, the constriction in his tailbone told him everything. He dared not look back, but ran full speed ahead between the trees, jagging right then left then right, tripping on forest debris. Up again, fear driving him forward. The pain in the chest increased, each breath a burn. The rain falling from the leaves pattered against his slicker. Mustn’t stop. Must stop. Must breathe.

He hid behind a large cottonwood and knelt, his face toward the sky gasping for air, his rifle across his knees. Again the rustling came, faster and closer. Up again. His legs wobbled. He saw the barbed wire fence thirty yards ahead. Bert Jerkovich’s spread. He’d clear the fence then head for Bert’s place. He’d be safe there.

With his left foot holding down the bottom wire and the shotgun holding up the middle, he started to step between the two. He pushed his body as far as he could through the opening, but was suddenly jerked back. His slicker pocket had snagged a barb. He reached behind him only to grab another barb, blood trickling from his palm. His left leg dropped from under him and tangled in the bottom wire.

He tossed down the gun, twisted his body back to see the snag better. The rustling behind him stopped. He looked up in time to see the muzzle at his face. In a flash of powder and noise his face was torn from its bones. The raw flesh poured its blood onto the forest floor. What remained of his head tilted back again toward the sky and rain. In a few moments the rain would clear the skull of the blood and wash it deep into the leaves and branches that littered and fed the forest floor.

~ * ~

Susan and Hugh Winslow sat in the empty Lodgepole Cafe deep in discussion with two proud grandparents.

Built in 1901, the restaurant had undergone several rebirths, but always remained an eatery. In the fifties, the owners had replaced the French windows with large plate glass thinking to modernize the exterior, but when the current owners received the historical designation they happily re-substituted the old windows. The high tin ceilings kept the place cool with period fans, while the less than professional murals along two opposing walls kept the customers occupied for a while during the wait for their food.

No one knew exactly when the murals were done, or by whom, but Skeeter Cummins, approaching his ninety-second birthday, thought he remembers they were there before he. Or was that the place in Silo next to the Exxon?

The worn asphalt tile had been torn up and the original wide, planked pine floors refinished. Brass fixtures added warmth along with the numerous antiques fixed to the walls. The first reaction by a new visitor as he walked through the front door was that of welcoming friendliness and comfort. And the great aromas didn’t hurt, either.

Yep. First place, repeated Tacoma. Did she sit a little taller or was it their imagination?

That’s wonderful, Tacoma, said Susan reaching for another pineapple stuffed pastry.

It was only 7:15 a.m., the tourists hadn’t yet hit the streets, so Tacoma and Joel had time to sit and chat. They wore their usual summer garb of jean shorts and tee shirt. Both were about five feet tall, and wore their ubiquitous stained aprons.

Only a sophomore, you know, added Joel, but she beat out the older kids.

Her project was on osmosis, you say? asked Hugh.

Yeah. Damn clever. Always was, even as a toddler. Remember, Tacoma?

Always was a curious child. Remember when she used to dig around the trees in the yard looking for those roly-poly things? She built a little maze in a shoe box to see if they’d figure it out.

Never did, Joel laughed.

A thumping under the table quickly changed the subject from grandchild science fairs to a more immediate concern.

Guess I better get that breakfast started, said Tacoma as she reached down to pet the source of the thumping. How about some oatmeal with toast, sweetie pie? She looked at Susan for approval.

You spoil them terribly, Tacoma. Just a little bit. But don’t tell Aunt Kate. She’ll have a fit.

Are you kidding? laughed Hugh. Why she sneaks food to them all the time. I caught her purposely dropping a piece of that God awful salmon-noodle-pie-carrots thing she made last night so the girls would be sure to get their share.

As if on cue, Wolfie gave a gentle bark, and not to be left out, Queenie joined in. After all, they were growing Malamute/Shepherds weighing in at a hundred and twenty-five pounds each. Could they help it if they needed a little bacon and eggs, toast, cookies, salmon, lunch meat, peanut butter, oatmeal, veggies, and a few bugs and dead birds found in the yard? Who ever heard of a dog eating only dog food?

I better get to work, too, said Joel as he pushed back his chair and stroked his bald head. Big day today. Gotta change the grease in the fryers. For a few days you folks won’t even recognize the taste of the French fries. They won’t have that delicate hint of breaded fish. But don’t worry, soon enough all the fryers will have the same taste.

I don’t think I’d be able to eat your fries, Joel, without that familiar tinge we’ve grown to love, Hugh smiled.

Oh, pshaw, Joel said as he headed for the kitchen, you sweet talkin’ son-of-a-gun. He stopped and returned to the table. Oh, before I forget, Tacoma’s making you all a special surprise breakfast in honor of Beth’s award. No guarantees. Just thought I’d warn you. Let Kate and Bert know when they get here.

Gotcha, said Hugh. Thanks for the warning. He poured more coffee from the carafe for himself and Susan then lit up a cigarette and leaned back in the chair.

This was what they had always dreamt of back in Chicago: to live in a small town in Montana where they’d know almost everyone and be known by most everyone, to have a favorite place to eat where the waitress would ask, Usual?, to walk into the grocery store or hardware store and the cashiers would know them by name.

They had found it in this little resort town of Lodgepole, population a couple hundred full-timers, ten times that during peak tourist times. The ski run brought people in for the winter, while the hiking, fishing, rafting, hunting, and scenery brought them in the warm months. The town’s livelihood depended on tourism. Townies could not afford to be rude to the guests, so smiles and helpful folks were everywhere.

Whatcha thinkin’ about, hon? asked Susan.

What the guys back at the precinct would think if they saw me in this cowboy hat and boots.

And jean jacket. Probably be very jealous. For a guy fifty-seven years old you look like you’re, oh, no more than fifty-six and a half. You gonna eat that last prune Danish, cowboy?

All yours.

A sudden mewing came from the dogs beneath the table, and the tail thumping began again. Hugh turned toward the entrance to see Susan’s Aunt Kate and beau Bert coming toward their table.

Did you order yet? Bert asked as he slid a chair out for Kate.

Since when do we order anything from Tacoma? laughed Susan. We saved you guys a couple of these strawberry tart things, she continued, passing the plate to Kate.

Do we know what to expect this time? asked Kate between chews.

Joel simply said to be on guard. Celebratory breakfast for Beth’s first place at the science fair, said Hugh. Although I did hear rumors about an investigation into the results. Fixed race I understand.

Nonsense, child, said Kate. You gonna pour me some coffee or am I gonna drink Susan’s? You know full well each entry was numbered. No names. We judges had no knowledge of who’d done what.

I still say they were darn lucky to have you as one of the judges. Thirty years as a science teacher in Minnesota should qualify you for something, said Bert with a kiss on her cheek.

Bert, not in public, she admonished, at the same time squeezing his hand under the table. Besides, I can’t trust anything you say. You’re prejudiced toward me.

And rightfully so, my dear. At the age of seventy-four, widower Bert was smitten by the sixty-eight year old retired spinster when they’d met in Virginia Weikert’s kitchen at the Bearpaw Down Home All You Can Eat Restaurant. They and several other ladies in town were there for cooking lessons by Virginia, who rightfully accused Bert of using her cooking classes as a dating service.

That was almost a year ago, and Bert had no intention of returning to Virginia’s tutorials. He was courting.

Tacoma approached with a serving tray balanced on her shoulder. The tray practically dwarfed her small frame.

Kate gets served first, she said as she put the tray on a nearby table, because she used such good judgment in giving Beth first place.

I told you, dear, I didn’t know it was hers.

Whatever, replied Tacoma. Today ya’ll get my not so famous omelet with onions, green peppers, cheddar cheese, and a touch of green chili. Then to cool your mouth you can munch on these melon balls. I also made you guys a side order of hash-browns with a touch of garlic. And here’s a stack of hotcakes with bananas and strawberries smooshed in ’em. Oh, here’s the sausage and bacon. And toast. Homemade strawberry jam. Grow my own berries, you know. Need more coffee? Juice?

My God, Tacoma, Susan sighed, how’re we gonna eat all this stuff?

I suggest very slowly, said Joel as he approached the table with two decanters of orange juice. And watch out for those hash-browns. She tried them out on me earlier and I’m still feeling the after effects.

I’ll give you an after effect, Tacoma threatened with a gentle nudge of her hip against his. You loved ’em.

True, my dear, true…but repeat performances of love are often not as enjoyable as the first time. They headed back toward the kitchen, their arms around each other.

Did you make that up?

Yep.

You clever old man. Let’s see how clever you are with emptying the grease traps.

A few of the locals were arriving now with a friendly wave and shout of Mornin’ or Hey. The room began to fill with the quiet din of plates and silverware being handled, and of ranch chatter from the men in overalls or jeans. Their faces were dark and ruddy from the summer sun and wind; the patina on their hands was formed of calluses and abrasions from the constant messing with machinery and fencing and cattle and leather and ropes.

Some preferred their weathered cowboy hats to the familiar John Deere caps. Some wore beaten and muddied cowboy boots, others chose work boots. Whatever their particular style, they all had one thing in common. All appeared to have been formed by the earth, wind, and water; as though extensions of nature, these ranchers knew how to survive in the downpours, the droughts, the bleaching heat that sapped your strength. These were survivors and damn proud of it.

Most smoked while they ate. Most would never say no to a beer at any time. Most were dogged by approaching poverty. A few, like Bert Jerkovich, had managed to extend a onetime homestead into thirty-five hundred acres with five hundred head of Angus. They’d raised families, the lucky ones having kids who stayed and would now inherit and extend their land, and now tried to let the next generation continue and improve what they had started. Money was always a concern to everyone, but some, like Bert, had few financial worries.

A few of the shop owners and clerks rushed in for their usual coffee to go. Again, more waves and greetings.

Gonna be hot again.

At least the rain stopped.

Now we get the humidity.

Not in Lodgepole. No humidity allowed.

Still got that old beaten-up Chevy I see.

Since 1962.

Johnson still out o’ town?

Helena. Pretends it’s legal stuff. Just drinkin’ and carousin’ if ya ask me.

Your west gate’s down. Or was down. They must have rubbed against the latch. Should wire that. I shooed a bunch of your cows back in and chained it. That four-twenty-seven is a real nasty critter, ain’t she?

Like to think of it as lots of character. Thanks. Must have happened after I passed it on the way in. Buy ya breakfast.

No argument there.

Hugh caught glimpses of the conversations and relished it. His thirty-some-odd years as a Chicago police detective hadn’t prepared him for this western lifestyle. Susan had informed him that they were retiring to Montana. He didn’t argue. He wasn’t sure what one did with mountains, rivers, and trees, but he figured he’d learn quickly enough.

They found a log home with ten acres of woods and small prairie on the Stone Creek River. They’d convinced Aunt Kate to join them, providing her with her own spaces in the lower level walkout that faced the river. That was more than a year ago. Now, Kate spent most of her day and nights at Bert’s place.

Figured I’d find you guys here, a female voice sounded over Hugh’s shoulder. A slender hand and arm reached past him and nabbed a slice of bacon from his plate. Hugh could see her blue uniform out of the corner of his eye.

‘Lo, Beatrice, he muttered between bites.

Hi, dear, said Kate.

You look so cute, said Susan. New hair-do?

Unwashed, replied Beatrice.

Bert shoveled more omelet into his mouth. What’s up Sheriff?

Can’t a girl stop by to share a friendly bite with her loving friends? asked Beatrice. She grabbed a chair from a nearby table before one of the newly arrived tourists could sit in it. Wow, what a spread. What’s the occasion?

Tacoma thinks Kate gave Beth the first place ribbon at the science fair, said Hugh.

I keep telling her I didn’t know it was Beth’s.