High Country Fall

CHAPTER 22

I was rooting around in the refrigerator and not finding much of interest when the phone rang. To my surprise, it was Lucius Burke, who had left the Ashe home shortly before Underwood and me.

“Look,” he said, “I know you’re just ten minutes in front of a preacher away from being a married lady, but I’m down here at the Mountain Laurel and they’re running a special on grilled brook trout and we both have to eat supper, right? And since I’m not arguing any cases before you the rest of the week and I do have a couple of questions about last night, why don’t you come join me?”

I laughed. Not the most subtle invitation I’d ever had, but I love fish of any description and shared meals are always more fun than solitary sandwiches. And it was obvious that Dwight didn’t give a damn about me or how I might be spending my evenings. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Order me a Bloody Mary, not too spicy, and I’ll be there in five minutes,” I told him.

According to the back of its menu, the Mountain Laurel Restaurant on Main Street began life as a summer residence for a robber baron’s granddaughter. Built in the Queen Anne style so popular in the late 1800s, it dripped enough lacy gingerbread from every eave and angle to give a house painter nightmares and stop tourists dead in their tracks with dreams of romantic mountain summers spent lazing in one of the many wicker swings and rockers that dotted the wide wraparound porch.

Inside, most of the downstairs walls had been removed to create an airy open space. Instead of being tricked out like some Victorian fantasy, however, the dining room was almost plain, softened by the pale pink cloths that covered the sensible square tables and by baskets of ferns that hung in front of illuminated stained-glass windows. A few restrained botanical prints hung on the walls.

Here at seven-thirty, all the tables were taken and several people without reservations waited out on the porch even though the night air was cool enough for fall jackets.

The hostess led me to Lucius Burke’s table, and as I approached he stood and held my chair for me. A Bloody Mary awaited in a tall and elegant glass.

“Nice,” I said.

“The restaurant, the drink, or the prospect of dinner?”

His green eyes twinkled in the glow of the tiny lamp on the tabletop between us.

“Everything. I’m glad you called me.”

When I looked around the room, I saw that most of the men wore jackets and ties, although a few bold ones like Lucius wore crewneck sweaters under their jackets. The women were sleek in boiled wool Chanel-type suits and chunky gold or silver necklaces with matching earrings. I took a discreet glance at the prices on the right side of the menu and realized that this place catered to the wealthy seasonal people, not budget-minded day-trippers. Except for the waitresses, there couldn’t have been more than three other women under the age of forty in the restaurant.

Except for the waitresses?

Too late I remembered that the twins worked here, and, sure enough, there was June, deftly distributing plates to a table of six at the far side of the room. With a little luck—

“Did you wish a few more minutes to look over the menu?” inquired a familiar voice from behind me, and I looked up to meet May’s startled eyes. “Deborah?”

“Hey, May,” I said. “You know Mr. Burke, don’t you? Lucius, this is my cousin May Pittman. Her parents own the condo I’m using this week.”

Before they could do more than murmur polite acknowledgments, I said, “Lucius says you have a grilled trout special? That sounds good to me.”

Barely hiding her disapproval, May took our orders and flounced away.

“She didn’t even ask what kind of dressing I want on my salad,” I said.

He smiled. “Does she think you’re cheating on your deputy?”

“Probably.” I sipped my Bloody Mary. It was perfectly seasoned. “You said you had questions about last night?”

“One of Sheriff Horton’s detectives may ask you about this tomorrow. We were wondering about your relationship with Norman Osborne?”

“Relationship?” I was puzzled. “There was no relationship between us. What gave you that idea?”

“Osborne carried a little notepad in his jacket pocket. Your name was there on a list with a question mark beside it.”

“Really? What sort of list?”

“His home phone number. His wife’s cell phone number. A note about the date Ledwig died, followed by several miscellaneous names. All of them were there last night. Some of them were recent customers of his. We were wondering if you were a customer, too?”

I shook my head.

“Not planning to buy a second home up here in the High Country?”

“Sorry. But now that you mention it …” I described to him how Norman Osborne had scribbled something on a notepad as Sunny led him away to the buffet tables. “Maybe that’s when he wrote my name down, but I can’t imagine why.”

“We’ll ask Sunny tomorrow,” he said.

“She should know,” I agreed, then, changing the subject, I asked, “Will Osborne’s death make you revisit your decision about Danny Freeman?”

“Sure knocks it into a cocked hat,” he said. “His attorney’s already been in my office asking for a dismissal.”

May returned with our salads, and she had taken it upon herself to drench mine in a heavy blue cheese dressing.

“I’m so sorry,” I said sweetly, handing it back to her. “You seem to have brought me someone else’s. I wanted olive oil on the side.”

“I’ll switch with you,” Lucius said. “I like blue cheese.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

He passed me his virgin salad and the two little cruets that had accompanied it.

While we ate, we compared notes on mutual acquaintances, the type of crimes he prosecuted in an area whose population fluctuated with the seasons, and what the political climate was like out here—conservative in the small towns and hollows, liberal around the college down in Howards Ford.

Our trout arrived hot and crispy from the grill as our conversation wound back to the deaths of Ledwig and Osborne and whether there was indeed a connection.

“Captain Underwood seems to think there is,” I said.

“Sound man,” said Burke. “I’m hoping he’ll run for sheriff when Horton retires. Make my life a little easier. His cases are always solid.”

“Speaking of which, did Fletcher say anything to you about interviewing your local UPS or FedEx delivery people?”

He shook his head. “In relation to what?”

I described what I had noticed in the photographs. Like Underwood, the mailers had skipped his attention, too, which was understandable since he hadn’t gone out to the Ledwig home that day either. He agreed, though, that it might help pinpoint the time a little more precisely. “Too bad Fletcher and Horton missed them.”

“It was a big deck,” I said, “and they were naturally concentrating on the other side.”

“All the same,” he said.

“Yeah,” I agreed.

We both passed on dessert but lingered over coffee, which seemed to annoy May even more, although she was careful to hide her annoyance from Burke. Every time I glanced past his head toward the service area, she and June had their heads together and were glaring at me. Their disapproval amused me. Here were a pair who’d lied to their parents, spent their tuition money on opening a café, and had suborned friends into supporting that lie. Now they were indignant because I was having a friendly dinner with a colleague?

Please!

Burke left May a generous tip and we walked out to our cars together. The moon cast lacy shadows through trees that were fast losing their leaves.

“It was a nice dinner,” I said. “Thank you for asking me.”

“Thank you for coming,” he said, a quizzical look on his face.

I wasn’t surprised when he drew me to him—the moonlight practically demanded it—and I didn’t resist as our lips met.

It was a perfectly fine kiss, but neither of us was breathing heavily when it was over.

“Sorry,” he said with a rueful smile, “but I wanted to know.”

“That’s okay,” I told him. “I did, too.”