Read Online Bitterroot by James Lee Burke - Free Book Online Page A

shade. She turned toward the river, so her voice would carry away from the house.
    “I talked with the sheriff this morning. Maisey couldn’t pick Lamar Ellison out of a photographic lineup,” she said.
    “What about fingerprints? They lifted prints all over her room,” I said.
    “Not his. He was released from jail this morning. No charges are being filed.”
    I let out my breath and looked up at the porch. Doc was petting a calico cat. He scratched its head, then set it in Maisey’s lap.
    “I wish I had let Ellison strangle to death. I think about putting my hand in his mouth and I want to scrub my skin with disinfectant,” Cleo said.
    “The sheriff hasn’t told Doc?”
    “No.”
    “Why would he tell you first?”
    Her throat was red, as though chafed by the wind. “Because I’ve known the sheriff since my son was murdered. Because Lamar Ellison is a member of the Berdoo Jesters. They were seen at the campground the night before my son died.”
    She went to the back of the house and dropped the paper sack with the cans in it into a trash barrel, then walked back to her truck. She unbuckled the holstered revolver, threw it on the seat, and slammed the door as though ending an argument in her own mind.
     
     
    A FEW MINUTES LATER I saw a Jeep Cherokee turn off the dirt road and clatter across Doc’s cattle guard and come through the grass behind the house. The Cherokee pulled around by the porch and Holly Girard got out from the driver’s side. She picked up a covered dish from the seat and walked up to the steps. A man I didn’t know sat in the passenger seat, a camera around his neck.
    “I thought you could use some of Xavier’s coonass gumbo,” Holly said.
    “That’s thoughtful of you. Where’s Xavier?” Doc said.
    “Drinking ice water and eating aspirin in the sauna. Guess why?” she replied.
    She wore crimson suede boots and tailored khakis and a white blouse that puffed in the wind and exposed the tops of her breasts. She had on a safari hat, but she removed it and tossed her hair, then I saw the photographer get out of the Jeep and walk down toward the river, as though he did not want to intrude upon a private moment.
          “We want Maisey to know she has lots of friends in Missoula,” she said.
    “Yes, I know she does,” Doc said. “How’d you learn about our trouble?”
    “Xavier is friends with the police reporter at the Missoulian,” Holly said.
    “Seems like Xavier’s friend is more loquacious than he should be,” Doc said.
    There was silence, then Holly Girard said, “Well, should I put this inside?”
    Behind me I heard Cleo Lonnigan open the door and step out on the porch. She looked down on the riverbank, then bit the corner of her lip.
    “I just burned something on the stove. The odor’s terrible. Here, I’ll take that inside for you,” she said. “Who’s our friend with the camera?”
    Holly smiled and stepped up on the porch and put the covered dish in Cleo’s hands, her face turned at an angle so that it caught the light.
    “He’s doing a photo essay on the ‘Take Back the Night’ march at the university. I hope you don’t mind him tagging along with me,” Holly said.
    Doc got up from his chair and put a stick of gum into his mouth. He chewed it, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the way he often did when he chose to ignore what was worst in people.
    “Come on in and have some cake,” he said.
    But Cleo remained in front of the door.
     “That man’s taking pictures, Doc,” she said.
    Doc turned and looked down the embankment at the photographer, who had now lowered his camera.
    “Is that true, Holly?” Doc asked.
    “I didn’t know he was going to do that. I’m sorry. If you want the film, you can have it,” Holly said.
    “I think you should leave,” Cleo said.
    “Excuse me?” Holly said.
    “Bad day for photo-ops. That shouldn’t be difficult to understand,” Cleo said.
    “Does this person speak for you, Tobin?” Holly