Read Online Gray Ghost Murders (9781101606070) by Keith McCafferty - Free Book Online Page B

mounted above the mantelpiece, a tuft of dried grass protruding from the nasal cavity.
    Willoughby followed Sean’s glance.
    â€œSweetgrass is a Cheyenne good-luck charm, hoping for bountiful vegetation,” he said. “With the rains this spring, the grass here is higher than I’ve ever seen it, so I’d say the homage we’ve paid our predecessors has paid off. Though not entirely to our advantage. The river is taking its time dropping into shape. Most stretches I couldn’t wade if I wanted to.”
    â€œWhat is that chair?” Stranahan asked.
    â€œIt’s a Chokwe throne. A tribal chief was said to have ruled from it. One of our members imports African artifacts.”
    â€œMmmm.” Through the screen door Stranahan could hear the undertone of the current, sinking into bass notes as the evening erased the polish from the surface. He turned to face the picture window, before which a rough-hewn table ran nearly the entire length of the room. Desk lamps of varied designs—gooseneck, banker, Tiffany—presided over a half dozen fly-tying benches. Feathers, furs, and other tying materials littered the tabletop.
    â€œBunkhouses and the bathroom are in the back,” Willoughby was saying. “We can sleep eight here with the new addition, though there are seldom more than four or five of us at any time. All the necessities as you can see, including a humidor and the bar. I’m going to have a branch water and bourbon in a tin cup, which is the only way. Would you care to join me? The water’s from the creek outside the door. We run it through a filter pump. There’s no worry about giardia.”
    â€œSounds good to me.”
    â€œIn that case I stand corrected. I suggest you do get out of your waders. It’s too good of a drink to hurry.”
    Sean sat in one of the Adirondack chairs on the porch to remove his waders. The outside walls of the cottage were hung with framed quotations.
    If fishing is interfering with your business, give up your business.
Sparse Grey Hackle.
    Game fish are too valuable to be caught only once.
Lee Wulff.
    There’s more BS in fly fishing than there is in a Kansas feedlot.
Lefty Kreh.
    â€œThis place reminds me of a Catskill fishing lodge,” Sean told Willoughby when he had rejoined him inside. “Like Sparse Grey Hackle wrote about in
Fishless Days, Angling Nights
.”
    â€œAh yes, what was it he said? Something about not wanting to be in any club that would accept him as a member. Which was a falsehood. I met old Alfred—his real name was Alfred Miller—oh, I think it must have been in the early seventies. He was a friend of my father’s. On the river he gave the appearance of a basset hound. A jowly face and a big chin, wore a porkpie hat and smoked a pipe. Always had mischief in his eyes.
Such
an erudite writer. It heartens me to know that a young man like yourself recognizes the name. So many fishermen today, all their gung-ho talk about Jedi sticks and hot fish and so forth, why when I floated the Gunnison last year the guide clicked the number of strikes on a digital counter!” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m showing my age, but when you begin to count trout you’ve lost sight of the reason to go to the river. It reminds me of something Henry David Thoreau wrote, men fishing all their lives without knowing that it is not the fish they are after.
    â€œHere, have some of this. Consider it Viagra for the mind.”
    Sean sipped at the whiskey. It was nectar.
    â€œThat may be the best bourbon I’ve ever had.”
    â€œIt ought to be. George T. Stagg is better than Maker’s Mark Gold Label in my humble opinion.”
    â€œWell, here’s to good whiskey and a well-tied fly.” They tapped cups. “If you don’t mind my asking you, where are the other members of your club? On the river somewhere?” Sean had noticed a couple pairs of waders