Read Online Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1) by Mark Stevens - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Stevens
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what?”
“She’s tellin’ the cops about hearing a shot and seeing somebody. Most of it was garbled, you know, fuzzy. But she got herself a few minutes with Sandstrom.”
Grumley tried to think of the questions that a normally curious guy would ask. The key was to settle on a point between overly interested and not nosy enough.
“Name?”
“Allison something.”
Grumley remembered her, a city girl with a lot of want-to, trust-me in her eyes. She’d come around, at one point, looking for a job. “Allison Coil?” He remembered her. She was stunning in her own small-boned way. Cute and very green.
“That’s it.”
“Why does she think it’s anything?”
“Have to ask her. Oh, something about a dead elk, too.”
Grumley suddenly realized how everything could unravel. Heard a shot. Saw something. She might make enough fuss that they’d go look. There was no chance of finding the body until spring even if someone gave enough of a shit to keep complaining that Rocky Carnivitas was missing from the face of the earth. Even then all the cops would have would be a dead guy and a bullet, right? Hunting accident. Applegate was the complicating factor.
Boyles shuffled off, turning up the volume on his police radio.
For two hours Grumley made routine calls while the working part of his brain sorted through various scenarios of cop investigations. Two clients were due next week, one for a bull elk, the other for a trophy-class mountain goat. Both were repeat clients, a Hollywood B-movie producer and a San Francisco banker. The banker didn’t want things to be “too easy” this time. There should be two crews getting both animals ready. They would have to tranquilize the bull and tie it down one or two days before the scheduled hunt date. Rocky’s bull would have worked fine, but that was water under the bridge. The mountain goat could be moved after he was sedated.
Next, he made a call down to the store. Sales were good, not spectacular. They had run out of camouflage vests because of a screw-up with the distributor, but there was no shortage of ladies’ swimwear.
The schedule showed two two-man crews out servicing camps. One camp was due to break the day after tomorrow. Both were five-man groups, one supplied with a cook and one without.
According to the chalkboard, two other guides were following back a messenger from a third camp who had come for help quartering and packing out a kill. Boyles was scheduled for barn clean up. A guy named Gilliam was on “Trudy Duty,” the thankless job of watching Grumley’s wife to prevent any unattended seizures.
Grumley drove back down the valley. Six miles downhill, he turned back to the north and headed up the eight bumpy unplowed miles to a cabin where he kept horses and had built quarters for the crews that helped run and organize the custom hunts. The hunts were known among the crews as “George G’s Custom Carnage.” The cabin sat in a dark, craggy canyon that saw sun only a few hours each day in the summer. From early September to late April it was constantly in the shadows. The corral was less than ideal, on a steep slope and wooded, but what did horses know about level? Grumley had built a small shelter for the horses to use in storms and a small barn for saddles and repair.
Four horses worked on a small pile of hay scattered in the snow. Given how fresh the pile, someone had been there within the hour. No one was lolling around in a bunk, drinking coffee, or waiting for orders. There were a dozen men who worked on Grumley’s crew and they were all solid, like marble. And that made sense. They were well compensated. They earned enough in four months to last them a year, if they didn’t convert it all into Wild Turkey.
It was a profitable empire. No mistakes were going to destroy it. Grumley found a bit in the shed and led Trooper from the corral. He found a blanket and saddle and fitted them on. He tied a coil of rope to the saddle, raided the
“She’s tellin’ the cops about hearing a shot and seeing somebody. Most of it was garbled, you know, fuzzy. But she got herself a few minutes with Sandstrom.”
Grumley tried to think of the questions that a normally curious guy would ask. The key was to settle on a point between overly interested and not nosy enough.
“Name?”
“Allison something.”
Grumley remembered her, a city girl with a lot of want-to, trust-me in her eyes. She’d come around, at one point, looking for a job. “Allison Coil?” He remembered her. She was stunning in her own small-boned way. Cute and very green.
“That’s it.”
“Why does she think it’s anything?”
“Have to ask her. Oh, something about a dead elk, too.”
Grumley suddenly realized how everything could unravel. Heard a shot. Saw something. She might make enough fuss that they’d go look. There was no chance of finding the body until spring even if someone gave enough of a shit to keep complaining that Rocky Carnivitas was missing from the face of the earth. Even then all the cops would have would be a dead guy and a bullet, right? Hunting accident. Applegate was the complicating factor.
Boyles shuffled off, turning up the volume on his police radio.
For two hours Grumley made routine calls while the working part of his brain sorted through various scenarios of cop investigations. Two clients were due next week, one for a bull elk, the other for a trophy-class mountain goat. Both were repeat clients, a Hollywood B-movie producer and a San Francisco banker. The banker didn’t want things to be “too easy” this time. There should be two crews getting both animals ready. They would have to tranquilize the bull and tie it down one or two days before the scheduled hunt date. Rocky’s bull would have worked fine, but that was water under the bridge. The mountain goat could be moved after he was sedated.
Next, he made a call down to the store. Sales were good, not spectacular. They had run out of camouflage vests because of a screw-up with the distributor, but there was no shortage of ladies’ swimwear.
The schedule showed two two-man crews out servicing camps. One camp was due to break the day after tomorrow. Both were five-man groups, one supplied with a cook and one without.
According to the chalkboard, two other guides were following back a messenger from a third camp who had come for help quartering and packing out a kill. Boyles was scheduled for barn clean up. A guy named Gilliam was on “Trudy Duty,” the thankless job of watching Grumley’s wife to prevent any unattended seizures.
Grumley drove back down the valley. Six miles downhill, he turned back to the north and headed up the eight bumpy unplowed miles to a cabin where he kept horses and had built quarters for the crews that helped run and organize the custom hunts. The hunts were known among the crews as “George G’s Custom Carnage.” The cabin sat in a dark, craggy canyon that saw sun only a few hours each day in the summer. From early September to late April it was constantly in the shadows. The corral was less than ideal, on a steep slope and wooded, but what did horses know about level? Grumley had built a small shelter for the horses to use in storms and a small barn for saddles and repair.
Four horses worked on a small pile of hay scattered in the snow. Given how fresh the pile, someone had been there within the hour. No one was lolling around in a bunk, drinking coffee, or waiting for orders. There were a dozen men who worked on Grumley’s crew and they were all solid, like marble. And that made sense. They were well compensated. They earned enough in four months to last them a year, if they didn’t convert it all into Wild Turkey.
It was a profitable empire. No mistakes were going to destroy it. Grumley found a bit in the shed and led Trooper from the corral. He found a blanket and saddle and fitted them on. He tied a coil of rope to the saddle, raided the
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