Matters of Doubt

By Warren C Easley

Who can you turn to when society spits you out?

Former LA prosecutor Cal Claxton has escaped to the Oregon wine country after his wife's suicide, determined to live a less-harried life. He's gotten a dog for company and takes pleasure in simple things like hiking, fishing, and crafting gourmet meals from the area's bounty, which he enjoys with local wines. He has no career ambitions, other than to sustain a small practice that will allow him to pay his bills. Then he's approached by a homeless street artist from Portland who wants him to take on the cold case investigation of his mother's murder. The young man believes his mother's boyfriend killed her eight years earlier, but the police were never able to solve the case. Cal turns him away. But his conscience won't let him rest…

Cal takes on the case against his better judgment. Soon, however, the street artist is charged with the boyfriend's murder, and Cal has to battle bias from the press, police, and public, along with his own doubts about his client in order to determine who has committed both crimes—and why.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Sep 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781615954421

Warren C Easley

Formerly a research scientist and international business executive, award-winning author Warren C. Easley lives in Oregon where he writes fiction, tutors GED students, fly fishes, and skis. Easley is the author of the Cal Claxton Oregon Mysteries. He received a Kay Snow National Award for fiction in 2012 and was named the Northwest’s Up and Coming Author in 2017, both honors bestowed by Willamette Writers. His fifth book, Blood for Wine, was shortlisted for a Nero Award.

Book preview

The Essentials of the Cal Claxton Series—

An Introduction by the Author

What sparks the urge to write crime fiction? It’s hard to say and different for every writer. For me, it was the fact that my head was literally bursting with stories I wanted to tell. This didn’t happen overnight. I put a PhD in chemistry and a career in R & D between me and the first written page. During that time, I read the genre intensely, especially the writers who capture the essence of a place, like James Lee Burke in his Gulf Coast novels. It wasn’t until I returned from a stint abroad and found myself retired near Portland, Oregon, that the lit fuse finally reached the powder. The stories sprang from my interest in and admiration for the resilient, optimistic people of the Northwest and my love of the natural beauty of this place I call home.

The protagonist in the series, Calvin Claxton, moves from Los Angeles to Oregon in the aftermath of his wife’s suicide. Once a hard-charging prosecutor caught up in his career, Cal underestimated the depth of his wife’s depression and missed the danger signals. As a guilt-ridden, shattered man, he moves to an old farmhouse in the heart of the Oregon wine country to start a one-man law practice and reinvent himself. He takes solace in the natural beauty of his surroundings, the companionship of a precocious Australian shepherd named Archie, and the meditative relief he finds in fly-fishing. And to his surprise, he becomes a damn good cook.

Cal stepped onto the page fully formed, a man I felt I knew almost instantly. He’s an everyman, a man wounded deeply by the suicide of his wife, a man who struggles to regain an emotional foothold. Once a prosecutor who brought the full weight of the legal system down on individuals, he now sees the system through a different lens. In his one-man practice in the small town of Dundee, he develops a reputation as a lawyer who will take on cases no one else will touch and fight for his clients, even if they lack financial resources. And through his weekly pro bono work in Portland, he often finds himself enmeshed in the social issues that tear at the fabric of society, from homelessness to gun proliferation to environmental destruction. Going the extra mile to get at the truth sometimes puts him at odds with the code of his profession and always puts him in danger. Through these struggles, Cal begins to find meaning in his life and maybe even a shot at redemption.

Cal is by no means a loner, and the recurring cast of characters in the series creates a strong sense of community. His neighbor to the north, Gertrude Johnson, keeps the books for his law practice. A no-nonsense, fifth-generation Oregonian, Gertie provides sage advice and attempts to keep Cal out of financial trouble. His best friend, Hernando Mendoza, is also his private investigator. Nando, who escaped from Cuba in a boat of his own making, knows the underbelly of Portland and provides a sharp edge and watchful eye in the cases Cal takes on. His daughter, Claire, who is pursuing a career in environmental science, has figured prominently in two of Cal’s cases, proving to be an able investigator in her own right. Finally, there’s Cal’s romantic attachments. In the course of his adventures, he encounters strong, dynamic women, but his love life always seems to be challenging. He wants to move on, but will he ever meet someone who can measure up to his deceased wife? That remains an open question.

—Warren C. Easley, 2021

Also by Warren C. Easley

The Cal Claxton Mysteries

Dead Float

Never Look Down

Not Dead Enough

Blood for Wine

Moving Targets

No Way to Die

Copyright © 2013, 2021 by Warren C. Easley

Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks

Cover design by Ervin Serrano

Cover images © Joao Grisantes/Arcangel, Kwangmoozaa/Shutterstock

Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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sourcebooks.com

Originally published in 2013 in the United States by Poisoned Pen Press.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Easley, Warren C, author.

Title: Matters of doubt / Warren C. Easley.

Description: Naperville, Illinois : Poisoned Pen Press, [2021] | Series:

Cal Claxton mysteries ; book 1 | First published in 2013 by

Poisoned Pen Press.

Identifiers: LCCN 2020042598 | (trade paperback)

Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3605.A777 M38 2021 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020042598

Contents

Front Cover

The Essentials of the Cal Claxton Series

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Excerpt from Dead Float

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Reading Group Guide

A Conversation with the Author

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Cover

To Marge, Greg, Sarah, and Kate

Chapter One

Sometimes, when I’m working in my office, the sound of traffic out on Pacific Highway reminds me of a river. I close my eyes and there I am, hip-deep in the current, casting my fly rod as ravenous trout and steelhead rise around me. But there was no time for fly-fishing fantasies on this particular day. I was booked solid from nine until four. Not that being busy meant I was making much money in my one-man law practice. Money’s tight in the small town of Dundee, Oregon, particularly since the downturn, and I found myself bartering for my fee more often than I’d like. Just the week before, I’d agreed to handle a man’s divorce in exchange for his repairing the fence on the south side of my property. Thank God I have my early retirement from the city of Los Angeles to fall back on, meager as it is.

I was a chief prosecutor down there. You probably know the type—uptight, ambitious, nose to the grindstone. I called what I did for a living my career, like it was some precious thing one kept in a glass case to admire. That seems a lifetime ago, and now my needs are more modest up here in Oregon. Enough cash to cover the mortgage and underwrite my fishing habit does me fine.

It was noon, and I had just unwrapped a bagel with cream cheese, red onion, capers, and a thick slice of Chinook salmon I’d smoked the week before. I groaned when I heard a tentative knocking on my back door. The parking lot’s behind my office, so most people come in at the rear, although I have a front door that opens directly onto the street.

Crap. Can’t a guy even eat lunch around here? I asked my Australian shepherd, Archie, who, at the sound of the knocking, had let out a short, irritated bark from his favorite spot in the corner. Vowing to make short work of my visitor, I opened the door and said, Can I help you?

Are you Calvin Claxton, the lawyer? Tall, pencil thin, maybe twenty, he sported black, spiky hair and a silver ring thrust through his eyebrow that matched a smaller one through his lower lip. Tattoos decorated both forearms and one crawled out of his scruffy black T-shirt, disappeared around his neck, and reappeared on the other side. It was a strikingly realistic depiction of a coral snake.

Yeah. That’s me. What can I do for you? My tone wasn’t particularly friendly. I felt ambivalent about pierced, tattooed, dressed-in-black types. I’m all for rebellious youth—how else are we going to change anything on this damn planet? But there was an odd uniformity to their look that put me off, and I had a sense they were passive and uninformed when it came to the real issues battering this world. On the other hand, I felt just as ambivalent about most politicos dressed in blue suits and red power ties.

I want to, uh, talk to you about something. Lightly pocked with acne scars, his pale cheeks joined his chin at a sharp angle. He had dark, liquid eyes that were clear and alert. I caught something in them—urgency, for sure, and something deeper with an edge to it I couldn’t quite read.

I’m taking a lunch break right now. You want to make an appointment?

He shook his head and sighed. I came all the way out here from Portland, man. I need to talk to you now.

I hesitated for a moment, then stepped back from the doorway. What’s your name?

Picasso. That’s what everyone calls me. My real name’s Danny Baxter.

Okay, Danny. Come on in. I hope you don’t mind if I eat while we talk.

He took a seat facing me across the desk. His high-top combat boots gleamed shiny black like the cheap plastic briefcase he was opening. He pulled out a file stuffed with papers, and while I munched a bite of my bagel, he said, I want you to help me find the person who murdered my mother.

I set the bagel down and came forward in my chair. Not exactly what I expected to hear. My guess was he’d been busted for selling or possession or both. I’m sorry for your loss, but I’m afraid that’s a job for the police.

He sneered at the word. They don’t give a shit. I’ve given up on them, man.

So, why me?

I met a kid in Portland from around here. He told me you helped his mom out. His old man was threatening to kill her. He said you’re smart, that you don’t give up. I want someone like you, someone who’s not a cop.

I had to smile. I remembered the case. I might’ve done that, but it sounds like what you need is a private investigator. I’m just an attorney. I don’t do investigative work for a living.

His face remained impassive, but his eyes registered pain, like I’d just slapped him. I can pay you. I’ve got money.

I’m not good at saying no. In fact, I’m lousy at it. Just ask my accountant. Sure, there was something about the kid I liked, his pluck, I guess. But my getting involved in some cold case in Portland made absolutely no sense. And his idea of money probably wouldn’t cover my first day. You’ve got bills to pay, I reminded myself.

I stood up and said, Sorry, but I’m not your man. I’d be glad to suggest someone who might be able to help you.

I expected him to push back, but instead, he tossed the file in his briefcase and muttered, half to himself, Should’ve known better. The abruptness caught me off-guard. It was like he was used to being turned down, and considering his appearance, I supposed it was a regular occurrence. This tugged at me, but I resisted the temptation to ask him to stay.

I showed him out the back way. When I returned to my desk, I glanced out the side window just in time to see him pedaling north on a beat-up street bike with his briefcase bungeed to a rack over the back wheel. A dark band of clouds hung on the horizon in front of him. It was probably twenty-five miles back to Portland, and I knew he’d get soaked, for sure. I shrugged and asked Archie, Why the hell didn’t he just phone me? Then I turned back to my desk and opened the file of my next client.

I had work to do, but the thought of that kid slogging all the way back to Portland in the rain made it hard to concentrate.

Chapter Two

I didn’t finish up at the office until late that day, and as I started climbing into the Dundee Hills toward my place, a hard rain let loose. It was early summer in Oregon, when sun and cloud vie for dominance with neither gaining the upper hand for very long.

A hand-carved sign outside the gate to my house says, CLAXTON’S AERIE. WELCOME. The sign was a gift from my daughter, Claire. The place is perched on a high ridge overlooking the north end of the Willamette Valley. I love it here, probably more than I should. Claire says it’s not healthy to live alone in such an isolated place. But I have my dog, Archie. He’s as fine a companion as any human could hope for. I have mornings when the fog burns off, and the colors in the valley come on like someone flipped a switch. I have nights when the stars glitter like big marbles, not the pinpricks you see—if you’re lucky—in the city. I can hear owls and coyotes, too, and even the occasional cougar, whose calls during mating season sound like the wail of a grieving woman.

Okay, my leaky old farmhouse is a sitting duck for the storms that roar up the valley in winter. But I’ve gotten pretty good with a caulk gun, and every once in a while a storm leaves a perfect rainbow in its wake.

At my mailbox I jammed a ball cap on my head and hopped out to check the mail before climbing the long driveway, opening the gate, and popping open the back car door. Archie whimpered but didn’t move. Oversized for an Aussie at seventy-five pounds and decidedly opinionated, he didn’t care for rain, or water in general.

After dinner the rain subsided, but I could see more on the way. It hung like a gray veil below a line of fast-moving clouds out in the valley. I called Archie in, and five minutes later more rain drummed in from the south. My thoughts turned again to the young man who’d visited me that afternoon. Surely he was home by now, I told myself. I’d made the right call. After all, my accountant keeps harping that I’ve got to think more like a businessman.

The rain had brought a chill to the air. I poured myself a splash of Rémy Martin, padded into my study, and logged on to my computer. I pulled up The Oregonian newspaper search engine and typed in the three words—Baxter, murder, and Portland. This is what came up:

Deschutes River—Remains Traced to Woman Missing 8 Years

Skeletal remains found in a reservoir bed on the Deschutes River five weeks ago have been identified as belonging to Nicole Baxter of Portland, according to the Jefferson County Medical Examiner’s Office. Chief Medical Examiner Dr. Ernest Givens stated the identification was based on the dental records of the deceased woman. He also stated that the preliminary findings suggest the cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the head. Ballistic tests on a single bullet found in the skull indicated a .22 caliber weapon was used.

Baxter, an investigative reporter for The Oregonian, disappeared on May 18, 2005. An extensive investigation by Portland detectives at the time failed to identify any substantive leads. The missing person case became inactive in early 2006. Baxter is survived by her son, Daniel Baxter of Portland, and her sister, Amy Baxter Isles of Gainesville, Florida. A spokesman for the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department said the investigation of Baxter’s death would be coordinated with the Portland Cold Case Unit.

The swivel chair creaked as I leaned back, my stomach tightening as I thought about what I’d just read. Eight years on the bottom of that reservoir. A young mother in the prime of her life, thrown away like so much trash. I thought about Danny Baxter’s frustration with how the case was being handled. Out in sparsely populated central Oregon, Jefferson County didn’t have a cold case unit to begin with, and they probably figured this was more Portland’s case than theirs, anyway. And recent budget cuts had probably hit them as hard as the Portland PD.

As for Portland’s Cold Case Unit, they—like all the others that had sprung up in the wake of the advances in forensic technology—were looking for cases with latent DNA evidence, a quick and easy way to score. There would be no DNA evidence in this case. So, although killing a reporter was close to killing a cop, I could see how this case might slip through the cracks like Danny claimed.

I remembered the thick file Baxter had brandished in my office and found myself wondering what information he had. I pictured him riding into that rainstorm, frowned, and shook my head. Maybe that glint in his eye—the one I couldn’t read—was sheer determination. Tattoos and piercings aside, I liked that in a person.

I pulled up an earlier article describing the discovery of the remains of the then-unidentified Nicole Baxter. I learned that a caretaker named Homer Burton had found human bones in the bed of a reservoir that had been emptied after a dam gave way. The reservoir was on the property of a private fishing cabin owned by Hugo Weiman, who, it was noted, was the head of Weiman and Associates, a lobbying firm in Salem. I wasn’t that attuned to Oregon politics, but I knew Weiman was a big-time power broker who’d amassed a small fortune by greasing the state’s political skids.

As a regular on the Deschutes, I knew approximately where the cabin was located. I was also pretty sure the lodge was on the other side of a locked gate, meaning only owners and guests with keys could drive into the property. The article included the following quote from Hugo Weiman:

I was shocked to learn that human remains were found on my property. I have no knowledge of how or why this horrible crime was committed, and I am fully cooperating with the police to help find the person or persons responsible.

My eyes began to droop. I drained the Rémy, logged off, and took the back stairs up to my bedroom with Archie in close pursuit. I opened the window and stood there in the wash of a cool breeze as a throng of frogs down by the pond belted out their mating songs. Then, having made a decision, I slipped quickly into a deep, restful sleep.

Three days later the phone rang at my office. It was my friend and sometime Portland business associate, Hernando Mendoza. My online search for the address of Daniel Baxter had proven futile, so I’d asked Nando for help. A Cuban exile with an intense appreciation of the U.S. capitalist system, he dabbled in real estate, had an office-cleaning business, and was the least-known, but in my opinion, the best private investigator in Portland.

Calvin. I have something for you, he said in his basso profundo. This young man you’re looking for, Daniel Baxter. He has no address because he lives on the street. Somewhere in Old Town, I am told.

You mean he’s homeless?

Yes. Like many other young people in Portland. I do not approve of children living under bridges. It is shameful. In Cuba, people are poor, yes. But if their families cannot take care of them, the state will.

So why did you leave your island paradise? I teased. Nando had rowed a boat of his own making to Florida eight years earlier—a five-day trip with very little food and water. He regarded his homeland with equal measures of love and disdain, and although he would never admit it, I knew he missed Cuba very much.

He laughed heartily. It was a non-brainer, my friend. I wanted to come to America and get rich. You know—

I’m sure what you’re going to tell me is fascinating, I interrupted, but I’m a little jammed here, Nando. I really did love his stories about Cuba, but it was a topic he could expound on for hours. How do I find the kid?

He is working at a community health center on Davis. Old Town Urgent Care. I am told he can be found there most days.

Good work, Nando.

I had no luck until I forgot about asking for Daniel Baxter and started asking for Picasso, the name he uses on the street. And the name seems to fit.

How’s that?

I am told this young man is an artist of exceptional skill.

After talking to Nando, I made a few more phone calls and cleared my calendar for the following day. This was something I did on a regular basis, although usually for different reasons, such as a good steelhead run. I’d make a quick trip to Portland to see if I could start over with the young man known on the street as Picasso. I wasn’t sure he’d talk to me, and I sure as hell didn’t know how I could help him, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

Chapter Three

I used to look the part when I worked down in L.A. I had a clean-shaven upper lip, razor-cut hair, and wouldn’t be caught at work without a suit of at least two pieces along with freshly shined shoes. I also exuded confidence just short of arrogance. That was part of the L.A. law enforcement culture back then. People on the street could read it a mile away, and I was mistaken for a cop more than once. But when I got out of my car in the old section of Portland the next morning, I didn’t turn any heads. I had on a pair of jeans, scuffed deck shoes, and a faded polo shirt under a well-worn leather jacket. My hair was longer now, sprinkled with gray, and the moustache that sprouted after I moved north was full and ran to the shaggy side between trims. Somewhere along the way, I’d definitely lost that L.A. swagger.

As Nando promised, the medical center was on Davis, just down from the Chinese Garden, in a converted two-story office building. The sign above the front entrance read OLD TOWN URGENT CARE. EVERYONE WELCOME. A young man with a cherub face and gauges the size of quarters stretched into his earlobes had his nose in a paperback at the desk. I wanted to ask how he’d done those discs, but thought better of it. My name’s Cal Claxton. I’m looking for Danny Baxter. He goes by the name Picasso. I was told he might be working here.

He gave me an annoyed looked. Uh, he might be in the back. Let me check. He disappeared through a set of swinging doors.

It was only a little past nine, but the waiting room was nearly full. A medicinal smell mingled uneasily with body odor and a hint of bleach coming from a damp swath of the floor that had been recently mopped. I sat down between a young girl, with dull, uncombed hair framing a pretty face, and a twentysomething man with a backpack on his lap and his right foot wrapped in a filthy, bloodstained bandage. A sign across from me on the wall said, TATS HOLDING YOU BACK? SEE IF YOU QUALIFY FOR FREE TATTOO REMOVAL, and gave an address on Burnside. Another said, DO YOU HAVE HEPATITIS C? GET FACTS. GET TREATMENT. HERE EVERY THURSDAY, 7 TO 9 P.M.

Five minutes later a tall woman in a white coat came through the doors. She raised her eyes above a pair of reading glasses straddling the bridge of her nose and spotted me immediately. Mr. Claxton?

I stood up and smiled. I expected her to speak to me in the waiting room, but she spun on her heels, so I followed her to a small, cluttered office on the other side of the swinging doors. In the harsh fluorescent light her eyes were the palest blue, her face devoid of color and slack with fatigue. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. It was the color of wheat, swirled through with veins of a lighter, almost golden color. How can I help you? she asked without introducing herself.

I’m looking for a young man named Danny Baxter. His street name’s Picasso. I understand he works here.

A strand of hair had broken free and hung down across one eye. She tucked it back in place and assumed a poker face. What’s your business with this person?

I pulled a card from my shirt pocket and handed it to her. I’m an attorney. Mr. Baxter came to me with a legal problem, but at the time, I didn’t think I could help him. I’ve reconsidered.

She looked down at my card, pursed her lips slightly, then looked back at me and smiled ever so slightly. You don’t look like an attorney.

I’ll take that as a compliment.

She kept her gaze on me, as if trying to gauge my sincerity. What sort of problem?

I smiled. I can’t discuss that.

She smiled back and some color rose in her cheeks. We seem to be at a standoff then. I’m sure you can appreciate that we have stringent confidentiality constraints here at the clinic. She motioned in the direction of the waiting room. It’s hard to gain the trust of these kids, and it’s very easy to lose it.

I can understand that. I glanced at the name tag pinned on her coat. Look, Dr. Eriksen, I just want to talk to him. I think I can help him.

This is about his mother, isn’t it. It wasn’t a question.

I nodded.

She shook her head and focused on something over my shoulder. God, the things these kids have to endure, she said, more to herself than me. Then she caught herself and continued, We’ve hired him to paint a mural on the side of our building. He’s just getting started. He’s a talented artist.

I’ve heard that.

He’ll be in sometime this morning, I think. You’ll have to wait for him to show.

I thanked her and, as I turned to go, she offered her hand. I’m Anna Eriksen.

I’m Cal Claxton. Nice to meet you, Anna. And it was.

At a little coffee shop across from the clinic, I ordered a double cappuccino with skim milk and sat out front waiting for Picasso. From where I sat, I had a clear view of the side of the building where the mural was to be painted. It was a two-story, windowless brick wall that extended nearly the length of the lot. The wall was blank, but a crude, one-tiered scaffolding was in place along maybe forty feet of its length. The lot next to the building was vacant.

While I waited I was asked for spare change by three different people, which explained, I think, why most customers were having their coffee inside. I was out of one-dollar bills when the third—a twentysomething girl with both arms solid with tattoos—hit me up. Since I’d given to the other two, I felt obligated, so I handed her a five.

Reviews for Matters of Doubt

[lostinalibrary · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Lawyer Calvin Claxton runs a one-man law office in Portland Oregon. He would be doing well financially, according to his accountant, if it weren't for his tendency to take on the cases of people who would otherwise not be able to afford good representation. As a result, he's determined to cut back on pro bono work and take on only paying customers, So when Danny Baxter aka Picasso, a scruffy street kid and accomplished muralist shows up and asks him to help solve the murder of his mom who had disappeared when he was a child, a case gone cold until her body was found recently, Cal refuses despite the fact the local police still don't seem too interested in the case. However, after a little time and research, he decides to at least talk to the kid and soon finds himself embroiled in a very complicated and, as the bodies begin to stack up, dangerous case.Matters of Doubt, the first in the Cal Claxton Mysteries series by Warren C Easley was first published in 2013 but the series is being republished by Poisoned Pen Press and, after reading it, I can understand why. Told in the first person by Cal Claxton who is one of the most likeable protagonists you will find in the genre, this is a well-written and compelling story. Along with a very interesting mystery, Easley also brings in complicated issues like homelessness especially among youth, and the difficulties the homeless face including from the law and he does it with empathy and compassion but without pity. Matters of Doubt gets a high recommendation from me. I will definitely be reading more of this series in the future.Thanks to Netgalley and Poisoned Pen Press for the opportunity to read this book in exchange for an honest review

[alirambles · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is the first book in a new mystery series featuring small town Oregon lawyer Cal Claxton. In Matters of Doubt, a homeless street artist who calls himself Picasso bikes all the way out to Cal's office from Portland, hoping to get help solving the mystery behind his mom's death. Cal is dubious, but Picasso's story, and the developments that ensue, pull him in until he's completely embroiled in a situation that's deeper than either of them had expected. I don't normally love mysteries because for me the characters often take a back seat to the plot, but Easley is a local author so I thought I'd give him a try. I'm so glad I did! Easley brings in characters so full and real, I felt like I ought to be looking for them--and in some cases, avoiding them--on the streets of Portland. For those who do love mysteries, there are enough twists and turns here to keep you guessing right through to the very last page.Easley's next book is supposed to be out in a year and I for one will be among the first readers.