Read Online Missionary Stew by Ross Thomas - Free Book Online

spittoon that the almost forgotten Alfalfa Bill Murray of Oklahoma was said to have been partial to.
    Yarn took out a black notebook and a ballpoint pen. Hubert jumped up into Tighe's lap and screamed in his face. Tighe scratched Hubert's ears absently with the air of a man who knows all about cats. “Lot of Siamese there,” he said.
    Haere nodded. “Half.”
    “We’d like to talk to you about Mr. John T. Replogle,” Yarn said.
    “He's dead.”
    “We know. Tell us about him.”
    “Tell you about him?”
    “Yes. Please.”
    “Well, sir,” Haere said, “he was a hardworking, industrious citizen,and probably the most steadfast and patriotic son of a bitch I ever knew. As for politics, he never belonged to any political party. He was a Democrat.”
    Yarn wrote none of that down. Tighe, still scratching the cat's ears, said, “Mr. Dooley?” without looking up.
    “Will Rogers,” Haere said.
    “Oh.”
    Yarn frowned slightly. “You were with Mr. Replogle—when he died?”
    “Yes.”
    “Tell us about it.”
    “You must have the Colorado Highway Patrol's report by now.”
    “We’ve got it,” Tighe said, “but we’d like you to tell us about it, if you don’t mind.”
    “Why?”
    “You said it was no accident,” Yarn said. “That it was intentional. If so, Mr. Replogle could have been murdered. If he was murdered, then there's the possibility that his civil rights were violated. If so, the Bureau is interested—definitely, officially.”
    “Your instructions are coming out of Washington?”
    Yarn nodded. “Out of Washington.”
    Haere told them about the drive from the Brown Palace to Idaho Springs, where he had first noticed the blue Dodge pickup. He then described the drive into the mountains and estimated they had gone approximately fifteen or sixteen miles when it happened.
    “It was actually fourteen point three miles,” Tighe said. “Past Idaho Springs.”
    It was Yarn's turn again. “What’d you and Mr. Replogle talk about on the way up?—if you don’t mind us asking.”
    Haere shrugged. “Death and dying. Thanksgiving. Old times. He had terminal cancer. Of the prostate.”
    “We know,” Yarn said.
    “Was he despondent, apprehensive?” Tighe said.
    “Well, he wasn’t exactly looking forward to it.”
    “What I mean is, did he seem to think that anyone was trying to kill him?”
    “No.”
    It was again Yarn's turn. “Did he mention Singapore?”
    “He said he’d been there recently.”
    “Did you ever know a Drew Meade?”
    “A long time ago.”
    “Mr. Replogle also knew him.”
    “That's right.”
    “Did Mr. Replogle tell you he had seen Mr. Meade in Singapore?”
    “He mentioned it.”
    “What did he say?—exactly, if you can.”
    “He said Mr. Meade looked like something out of Somerset Maugham.”
    “ ‘The Casuarina Tree?’“ said Tighe.
    “He wasn’t quite that specific.”
    “What did they talk about?”
    “Money.”
    Yarn looked interested. “Can you give us a little more detail?”
    “Sure. Meade didn’t have any and he wanted Jack Replogle to lend him some.”
    “Did he?”
    “Probably. Mr. Replogle was not only an extremely industrious and patriotic citizen, he was also a very soft touch.”
    “So he lent or gave Meade some money?” Tighe said.
    “I didn’t say that. I said probably.”
    There was a brief silence. Tighe scratched Hubert's ears some more. Yarn wrote something in his black notebook. When he was finished, he looked up at Haere and said, “Is there anything else you can remember about what Mr. Replogle and Mr. Meade discussed?”
    Haere lied as a matter of course. “No.”
    Yarn nodded, as if that were the answer he had expected. “Tell us a little about yourself, Mr. Haere, what it is you do.”
    “You’re serious?”
    Again, Yarn nodded.
    “Well,” Haere said, “I try to shape the events that alter and illuminate our lives.”
    “Politics.”
    “Politics,” Haere agreed.
    “But you’re not a