The Wild Inside (15 page)

“I’m a simple guy,” he said. “Don’t care much about church. I stay out of other people’s business, including my sister’s. This here”—he gestured to the lake, its turquoise water from glacier silt near the shoreline giving way to sapphire-blue farther out, and the mountains surrounding us like some pastoral setting in a vivid Bierstadt or Moran painting—“is my church. If I don’t have enough sense to go find some peace . . . calm down among the likes of this place after a fight with my wife, then I’m an idiot.” His eyes were narrow, on fire, eyes that had seen intense things, and I wondered if he’d been in Vietnam since he looked about that age. Or if he dodged, headed to Canada to seek the beauty of the mountains, his modus operandi all along. He continued to glare at me, standing above me until I fidgeted in my chair and it creaked. I heard a raven caw and a cold breeze touched my nose. Then he sat back down and folded his arms.

I waited a second to see if Monty would add a little good-cop flavoring to the mix, but he didn’t. He sat, more stunned than poised. “So am I to take it that your love of this oh-so-special place is meant to be some kind of alibi?” My voice dripped with sarcasm. I couldn’t help myself. My anger at Glacier Park and all it held, including this man who loved the woods unabashedly with no hang-ups like mine, leaked into my voice in spite of myself. “An automatic given,” I added, “that you had nothing to do with your nephew’s murder even though you were at the entrance to the area around the same time of the incident?”

“Listen, Lou,” Monty broke in and glanced at me nervously, holding his hand up like he was a second-grader asking permission to speak. “I know how you feel. I feel the same about this place. If I had a fight with my wife, I would chill out near Lake McDonald too, especially if I
lived where you do.” He looked around to take in the view: the white-capped peaks with dark-gray clouds hanging above and beginning to crack open to show patches of blue above. Monty whistled to show how impressed he was with Lou’s spot in the Crown of the Continent.

This was the first I’d known that Monty had a wife, provided he wasn’t making it up for Lou’s benefit. If he
was
making it up, he was good and catching on way quicker than some of the guys from the Denver office. Lou gave Monty a long stare as well, not moving a muscle, his arms rigid before his chest. “But,” Monty added, “you need to understand that we have to account for everyone’s whereabouts during this time frame.”

“Correct,” I chimed in. “It’s a process of elimination is all. So we can eliminate you from the investigation.”

“Well, I don’t have witnesses other than the chipmunks and the ravens.” He unfolded his arms and gestured to the woods. “If you want me to take some kind of lie-detector test, I will. You still use them things?”

“Polygraphs? Sometimes, but that’s not necessary for now, Mr. Shelton,” I said.

Lou nodded, calmer. I asked him if he had any information or knowledge about Victor’s dealer or dealers, knew of the Columbia Falls black Lab incident and if there was any relation to Victor, and if he knew anyone who would want to harm his nephew. He gave us nothing useful on any of these fronts, except to confirm that his nephew was, indeed, a druggie and had a temper problem. Lou said he had very little contact with Victor and liked to keep it that way for obvious reasons.

“Okay, then.” I finally closed my notebook. Other than the guy having no alibi and whatever hunch I was having, I had nothing specific enough to claim probable cause, which I needed in order to get a search warrant for his truck. Not having an alibi wasn’t enough. I’d have to wait to see if Gretchen came up with any tire-track prints that would give reason to bring us back.

• • •

The sun’s rays suddenly sneaked under the layer of clouds that had blanketed the mountains the entire day. It lit up the lower hills and trees with a golden hue as we drove away from Lou’s place toward park headquarters. We hadn’t eaten all day, and Monty mentioned that he was starving and wanted to get home, so I took the opportunity to ask him, “That true what you said to him about your wife?”

“Yep,” Monty said. “Only, we’re not together right now. Separated.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I looked ahead at the glowing ridge before me. There was an exquisite beauty in the rich light that reminded me of the way I usually feel when I listen to an intricate piece of classical music, like Dvořák or Chopin, how I float to some ineffable place of bittersweet and raw human emotion. For some reason, Lou had gotten to me. I had expected that he might get uptight, but I hadn’t expected my own agitation, and I felt a little guilty and slightly bare; as if Lou had unwittingly and indirectly peeled some thin, but essential top layer off of me. “Kids?”

Monty shook his head.

“How long you been separated?”

“Only about two months.”

“So there’s still hope?”

Monty looked out to the side of the road without answering. A strong sadness seemed to drape over him, his head tilting toward his shoulder as if it had suddenly grown heavy. It made me wish I hadn’t asked. We drove the rest of the way in silence, and eventually the golden light disappeared and the temperature dropped rapidly.

When we got out of the SUV at headquarters, a bitter rawness in the chilly fall evening enveloped us and made the mentioning of hope entirely insignificant—a mere faded, dried leaf lost in a pile to be raked and bagged like the ones beside Lou’s cabin.

• • •

The next morning I woke with my stomach growling. The night before, I ended up grabbing some microwavable sandwich wrapped in plastic at a convenience store in Hungry Horse. I decided I needed a real breakfast with some protein. I grabbed my coat and headed out into the early crisp morning with a clear, cerulean sky framing the mountains. I was surprised to see the peaks shed the weighty clouds of the day before so quickly because once they settled in, they often stayed trapped in by mountains for days. The blueness brought a sense of order, making me feel instantly lighter, like I was set to make some real headway in the case.

I drove to the café in West Glacier, half-expecting to find Joe or Monty there. In fact, I found both: Monty with a pile of pancakes two inches high and some bacon; and Joe with a bowl of oatmeal, I suspected his morning usual.

“How’s it going?” Joe asked.

“Good and hungry,” I said.

“It’s the Glacier air.” Joe held his spoon in one hand and pointed at a chair with it. “Sit.”

“You’ve come to the right place, then,” Monty said.

“I can see that.” I nodded to his stack of pancakes coated with a bluish-purple syrup, then grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it up to the head of the table. “Huckleberry?” I asked.

Monty nodded. “Delicious. You should try some.”

During the height of the season, along with Flathead Lake cherries, all the tourist spots on the highway through the canyon were known for selling anything that could be made with wild huckleberries: ice cream, syrup, jam, scones, fudge, pies. Suddenly I felt nostalgic, and thought of my family picking huckleberries near the Hungry Horse Reservoir the first summer we moved to Montana. An image of Natalie with a blue-stained smile popped into my mind, and I remembered my dad telling her that she’d never get any in her jar if she continued to eat five to each one she saved. “You’re here early,” I said to Monty. “You even go home?”

“Of course, got a great night’s sleep too.”

“Excellent,” I said. “So, where’s home? C’ Falls?” It’s actually
Columbia
Falls, but the locals abbreviate it.

Monty pointed toward the direction I’d just come. “Dorm thirty-six, next to the community building.”

“Oh, so we’re practically neighbors?”

“That’s right.” He shoveled a wad of pancakes in his mouth and chewed vigorously. It seemed out of character for him. “Sorry I haven’t swung by with a huckleberry pie.”

“You’ve still got time.” I caught Joe looking at us. A thin smile played across his lips, and I could tell he was relieved to see Monty and me bantering a bit—as if the slight friendship we’d accomplished made Joe feel better about backing Ford. “How’s the bear?” I said to Joe.

“On my way to check on him after this.”

“No bullet yet?”

“On my way to find out. Want to join me?” Joe turned to me.

This was the second time he’d asked me, and I still wondered if there was something up—as if I were Sheriff Brody from
Jaws
, utterly afraid of water, yet still being asked to go for a boat ride. But Joe’s eyes were wide and clear—free of mischief or ill intent. “Maybe.” I gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Right now I need to eat. And,” I said to Monty, “I’m meeting Gretchen at seven thirty to check out Victor’s lovely home.”

“In need of some interior decorating tips, are ya?” Joe asked dryly.

I smiled. “Absolutely. See if he’s got any new color combos I just can’t live without.” I peered over my shoulder just in time to see the waitress come over with a menu for me. This one was middle-aged and pleasant-looking, with a soft smile and a bad perm, the ends of her dishwater-blond hair seeming to dissolve into nothing. I wondered if she was the mother of the girl who served us when we came for lunch the other day. Joe introduced her as Carol, and she welcomed me to the area. I ordered some eggs, hash browns, and toast and asked as politely
as I could for her to make it snappy. “Then I’m off to . . .” I momentarily paused because I felt awkward mentioning Joe’s daughter as someone I needed to question while on a murder case. And I had to think for a second whether it would bother him that Monty was in the know-how about Leslie.

Joe looked at me with patience.

“To talk to your daughter,” I said after weighing in my mind that he would not care that Monty knew. After all, Joe had backed Ford in assigning Monty to me.

Joe lowered his pointy chin and said nothing. He grabbed his coffee and sipped it, then cleared his throat.

“Anything from the creeks?”

Joe shook his head. “Nothing.”

That didn’t surprise me. It was the deeper water that I knew needed to be searched. That is where a gun would be thrown. “Any word from Walsh on getting the divers out?”

“They’re on a job right now on Flathead Lake. Getting some car out that went in last night. Some intoxicated guy forced the oncoming vehicle to cross the center line, forcing two teenagers to swerve and go into the lake.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Survivors?”

Joe shook his head.

“Then they’ve got some other job to do on Tuesday—he didn’t say what, but said he might be able to get them on McDonald by Wednesday or Thursday.”

“I guess that’ll have to do.”

“You find what you were looking for with Lou yesterday?”

“Yes and no. Nothing conclusive, but he doesn’t have an alibi.”

“It’s hard for loners to have alibis.”

“You think he’s a loner? He’s got a wife and a stepson.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a loner,” Joe said. “Some people are the world’s best at being alone in the company of others.”

He could have been quoting Shelly. She used to tell me those exact words. “But I don’t know . . .” I bit my lower lip.

“Know what?” Monty asked.

“About him. I mean, I can tell that he’s definitely got his own code of ethics, that guy. But that doesn’t mean his code doesn’t include taking care of a nasty nephew.”

Joe shook his head. “I don’t see it, but what do I know? I’m just used to traffic violations, petty theft, and snorting deer ’round here.”

“Why don’t you see it? How long have you known him?”

“Lou? He’s been here since before I came in the early nineties. Never been a problem. Keeps to himself, except for one time he got pretty ornery at a forum the park held to invite the public to comment on the management of NPS-owned Lake McDonald cabins.”

“What was the problem?”

“Can’t really remember what bone he had to pick. Probably just getting people riled up over the idea of the Park Service poking into the inholders’ business.”

“Are there many problems between the inholders and the park?”

“Nah.” Joe wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Just the usual. Somebody getting bent out of shape over being told what they can and can’t do. Last lawsuit was over someone getting angry because the park was restricting the use of an ATV even though they were only using it to access their own property.”

“And was Lou involved in this?”

“Not that I recall.” Joe looked out the window, his gaze faraway. I could tell, deep down, he was bothered about his daughter being involved with Victor Lance.

Monty moved his plate an inch or two away from himself to signal he was finished eating just as Carol brought my eggs. She set everything down on the table quickly, but carefully, all the while looking out the window, just as Joe was doing. I could tell she’d been waiting tables a very long time.

• • •

Victor didn’t really have much in the way of neighbors in Martin City—just a double-wide about a tenth of a mile to his west and a small log cabin about a half a mile to his north. Victor also lived in a trailer—a run-down dirty peach-colored one propped up on gray cinder blocks at each corner. Gretchen met us at the front door, pushing up her dark-rimmed glasses with her wrist. She held out her hand for us to come in. “Please do not touch anything,” she said.

I nodded. “Happy not to. And how’s your morning in this peachy place?”

“Cute,” she said without smiling. “I’ve gone over it with a fine-tooth comb yesterday.” Again, she had trouble with the “th” at the end of tooth, so that it sounded more like “toot.” “Obviously, this place is a pit.” She gestured around the dingy room scattered with dirty clothes, empty cigarette packets, beer cans, whiskey bottles, old pizza boxes, and plastic wrappers from all sorts of junk food. Unwashed pots and pans towered in the sink, cabinet doors gaped open, and no food was in the fridge. “But there’s no sign of struggle or foul play. No unusual fibers. Prints are mostly his. It’s just poor living conditions for a guy who didn’t care how he lived.”

“No meth lab?” I asked.

“Nope, no chemicals or apparatus along those lines.”