you leaving for Oregon?”
“Yes, of course we’re coming. And we’re moving to Portland in a couple of weeks. Now—what’s going on with you and Homer?”
For a moment I couldn’t think of what to say.
“Hey, Mom. You okay?” Joe asked, sounding anxious.
“Yes, I’m fine. But the day has been—well, not the best I ever had.”
“What do you mean? What’s going on?”
So I told him all about John Walker’s suicide, my meeting with Trooper Nelson at the Driftwood Inn, identifying John, and finding the names on the bottles of whiskey.
“He’ll probably call you. I gave him the names and phone numbers of everyone who was here for dinner that night.”
“I haven’t anything much to tell him,” Joe said. “Walker was pretty reticent about his background, if you remember my telling you.”
We talked for a little longer and he promised to have Sharon call me when she had time.
I had no more than hung up the phone when there was a knock at the door.
I was surprised to find Trooper Nelson on the doorstep, his shoulders and hat covered with white fla kes that were falling through the evening dark.
It was snowing, as I had expected it might.
“Come in,” I invited, opening the door wide for him to step through.
“You left a message for me,” he said as he brushed at his coat and hat. “Thought I’d stop and find out why before heading back to Anchor Point. You think of something else I should know?”
“Two things,” I told him. “More odd ideas, maybe. Though it’s more than a little speculation on my part. Take off your coat and I’ll get you some coffee before I show you.”
He shed and hung it with his hat on one of the hooks by the door for that purpose.
“Coffee would be welcome, thanks. Black, please.”
I filled a mug and took it to the table next to the kitchen, where he came and sat across from me, laying down the clipboard he was once again carrying to reach down and give a pat to Stretch, who had come to check out this interesting stranger before giving his approval. The pat and a rub behind his ears were enough to allow that.
“What’s his name?” he asked.
“Stretch.”
He grinned, as people usually do.
“Great name. Now, what ideas have you had?”
First I handed him the list of names I had collected and told him about finding them on the whiskey bottles at the liquor store.
“It’s just an idea. But if, not wanting to use his real name, he took John Walker from the Johnnie Walker label, might he not have used others as well—especially these that are all distilled in Tennessee and Kentucky—the South, where he told my son he was born?”
Trooper Nelson scanned the list with a frown, shook his head thoughtfully, laid it down, and gave me a long look. Then he smiled ruefully.
“Interesting idea. Ever consider going into law enforcement, Mrs. . . . ah . . . Maxie?”
“No, I never have. This was just serendipity. If I hadn’t stopped to refill my liquor supply . . .”
“You had the sense to put two and two together. Whether or not it makes four, we have no way of knowing right now, but it’s a possibility. I’ll put it in the file and consider. Other names would be hard to check, not knowing where he’s been before he came here and which ones he might have used. But nevertheless . . .”
“Another string for the bow,” I suggested.
“Yes, and we haven’t much to go on, have we?”
I liked the sound of that we . It meant he was taking me seriously.
He hesitated thoughtfully for a few moments, reading the list again, then turned it over and wrote on the back before handing it back across the table. “Here’s another thing I think will interest you. When he registered at the Driftwood Inn, he wrote his name in their book like this.”
John E. Walker , he had written. I stared at it, astonished.
Trooper Nelson nodded.
“Interesting, isn’t it? Now, you said you had two things?”
I handed him the belt buckle we had found under the table
“Yes, of course we’re coming. And we’re moving to Portland in a couple of weeks. Now—what’s going on with you and Homer?”
For a moment I couldn’t think of what to say.
“Hey, Mom. You okay?” Joe asked, sounding anxious.
“Yes, I’m fine. But the day has been—well, not the best I ever had.”
“What do you mean? What’s going on?”
So I told him all about John Walker’s suicide, my meeting with Trooper Nelson at the Driftwood Inn, identifying John, and finding the names on the bottles of whiskey.
“He’ll probably call you. I gave him the names and phone numbers of everyone who was here for dinner that night.”
“I haven’t anything much to tell him,” Joe said. “Walker was pretty reticent about his background, if you remember my telling you.”
We talked for a little longer and he promised to have Sharon call me when she had time.
I had no more than hung up the phone when there was a knock at the door.
I was surprised to find Trooper Nelson on the doorstep, his shoulders and hat covered with white fla kes that were falling through the evening dark.
It was snowing, as I had expected it might.
“Come in,” I invited, opening the door wide for him to step through.
“You left a message for me,” he said as he brushed at his coat and hat. “Thought I’d stop and find out why before heading back to Anchor Point. You think of something else I should know?”
“Two things,” I told him. “More odd ideas, maybe. Though it’s more than a little speculation on my part. Take off your coat and I’ll get you some coffee before I show you.”
He shed and hung it with his hat on one of the hooks by the door for that purpose.
“Coffee would be welcome, thanks. Black, please.”
I filled a mug and took it to the table next to the kitchen, where he came and sat across from me, laying down the clipboard he was once again carrying to reach down and give a pat to Stretch, who had come to check out this interesting stranger before giving his approval. The pat and a rub behind his ears were enough to allow that.
“What’s his name?” he asked.
“Stretch.”
He grinned, as people usually do.
“Great name. Now, what ideas have you had?”
First I handed him the list of names I had collected and told him about finding them on the whiskey bottles at the liquor store.
“It’s just an idea. But if, not wanting to use his real name, he took John Walker from the Johnnie Walker label, might he not have used others as well—especially these that are all distilled in Tennessee and Kentucky—the South, where he told my son he was born?”
Trooper Nelson scanned the list with a frown, shook his head thoughtfully, laid it down, and gave me a long look. Then he smiled ruefully.
“Interesting idea. Ever consider going into law enforcement, Mrs. . . . ah . . . Maxie?”
“No, I never have. This was just serendipity. If I hadn’t stopped to refill my liquor supply . . .”
“You had the sense to put two and two together. Whether or not it makes four, we have no way of knowing right now, but it’s a possibility. I’ll put it in the file and consider. Other names would be hard to check, not knowing where he’s been before he came here and which ones he might have used. But nevertheless . . .”
“Another string for the bow,” I suggested.
“Yes, and we haven’t much to go on, have we?”
I liked the sound of that we . It meant he was taking me seriously.
He hesitated thoughtfully for a few moments, reading the list again, then turned it over and wrote on the back before handing it back across the table. “Here’s another thing I think will interest you. When he registered at the Driftwood Inn, he wrote his name in their book like this.”
John E. Walker , he had written. I stared at it, astonished.
Trooper Nelson nodded.
“Interesting, isn’t it? Now, you said you had two things?”
I handed him the belt buckle we had found under the table
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