company. I made short work of that drink and the next one. Detective J. P. Beaumont disappeared with a subsequent dose of McNaughton’s. All that remained was me, the man, or whatever bits and pieces were left of him.
“You’re hitting it pretty hand, aren’t you?” Barney asked, as he delivered my next drink.
“So what?” I returned. He handed me the glass, and I stared morosely into it. I swirled the amber liquid, listening to the crushed ice rustle against the glass.
Gradually, my carefully constructed defenses gave way. Pain leaked from every pore.
Ginger’s touch had reawakened that part of me that had died with Anne. Now Ginger’s death released the grief I had kept so carefully bottled up inside me. It washed across me like a gigantic wave, choking me, drowning me.
The next thing I remember is Barney taking my last drink away and leading me, sobbing, from the bar. He got me as far as the door to my room before I was sick in a bordering flower bed.
It was still light when I staggered out of the bathroom and crawled into bed. I have a dim memory of Barney closing the curtains before he went outside and shut the door behind him.
Chapter 14
WHEN I woke up, cold sober, at two o’clock in the morning, I felt painfully alive again. I still hurt, but I had somehow bridged the chasm between the past and the present and was ready to go on. I had Ginger Watkins to thank for that, and there was only one way to repay her. Ignoring my hangover, I rummaged around for paper, finally locating a fistful of Rosario stationery. I assigned each person a separate sheet of paper-Ginger, Sig, Wilson, Darrell, Homer, Mona. Under each name I noted everything I knew about them: things Ginger had told me, things I had heard from other sources. Maybe there’s a better way of sorting out the players than by using paper and pencil, but I’ve never found one. If I were keeping score, I’d have to say that Sig Larson dropped a few points in the process. I have an innate suspicion of perfection. Both Ginger’s comments and the newspaper’s undiluted praise made me wonder if the paragon had feet of clay. Being dead is only part of the qualifications for sainthood. Over and over, I recalled my offhand denial to Ernie, “Just friends,” and so was Sig to Ginger. Just friends, right? Like hell. A twinge of tardy jealousy caused me to turn to Mona Larson’s sheet. What about her? Ginger had dismissed her as a calculating bitch. What suspicious wife isn’t a calculating bitch, especially if she has some reason, especially from the other woman’s point of view? I could see Mona Larson in my mind’s eye, a woman from sturdy farm stock, someone well beyond her middle years who had stood by her man through thick and thin only to see herself losing him to an attractive younger woman. It would give the fruits of her labors a bitter aftertaste. So, how jealous was Mona Larson? Enough to make her anger public by sending Trixie Bowdeen with the message for Ginger not to attend Sig’s funeral.
Where had Mona been when she was supposedly en route to Orcas? Huggins had been unable to locate her to notify her of Sig’s death. It was an item that merited exploration, but it wasn’t top priority.
Not that many jealous spouses actually murder their spouses and their spouses’ friends.
Friends. There was that word again. Even in private thoughts I tended to gloss over it. Lover, then. Ginger and I had been lovers, briefly. And maybe Sig and Ginger had been, too. But if so, Sig was just as bad as Darrell. Ginger hadn’t faked her surprise or enjoyment, had she? No. My ego wouldn’t accept that, and no woman could be so unlucky as to have two men as insensitive and unfeeling as Darrell. No. My thoughts chased themselves full-circle. Ginger and Sig could not have been lovers.
What about Homer and Darrell? What did I know of them? Homer and Jethro, I thought.
Between them they wielded a large amount of power. With it they had imprisoned
“You’re hitting it pretty hand, aren’t you?” Barney asked, as he delivered my next drink.
“So what?” I returned. He handed me the glass, and I stared morosely into it. I swirled the amber liquid, listening to the crushed ice rustle against the glass.
Gradually, my carefully constructed defenses gave way. Pain leaked from every pore.
Ginger’s touch had reawakened that part of me that had died with Anne. Now Ginger’s death released the grief I had kept so carefully bottled up inside me. It washed across me like a gigantic wave, choking me, drowning me.
The next thing I remember is Barney taking my last drink away and leading me, sobbing, from the bar. He got me as far as the door to my room before I was sick in a bordering flower bed.
It was still light when I staggered out of the bathroom and crawled into bed. I have a dim memory of Barney closing the curtains before he went outside and shut the door behind him.
Chapter 14
WHEN I woke up, cold sober, at two o’clock in the morning, I felt painfully alive again. I still hurt, but I had somehow bridged the chasm between the past and the present and was ready to go on. I had Ginger Watkins to thank for that, and there was only one way to repay her. Ignoring my hangover, I rummaged around for paper, finally locating a fistful of Rosario stationery. I assigned each person a separate sheet of paper-Ginger, Sig, Wilson, Darrell, Homer, Mona. Under each name I noted everything I knew about them: things Ginger had told me, things I had heard from other sources. Maybe there’s a better way of sorting out the players than by using paper and pencil, but I’ve never found one. If I were keeping score, I’d have to say that Sig Larson dropped a few points in the process. I have an innate suspicion of perfection. Both Ginger’s comments and the newspaper’s undiluted praise made me wonder if the paragon had feet of clay. Being dead is only part of the qualifications for sainthood. Over and over, I recalled my offhand denial to Ernie, “Just friends,” and so was Sig to Ginger. Just friends, right? Like hell. A twinge of tardy jealousy caused me to turn to Mona Larson’s sheet. What about her? Ginger had dismissed her as a calculating bitch. What suspicious wife isn’t a calculating bitch, especially if she has some reason, especially from the other woman’s point of view? I could see Mona Larson in my mind’s eye, a woman from sturdy farm stock, someone well beyond her middle years who had stood by her man through thick and thin only to see herself losing him to an attractive younger woman. It would give the fruits of her labors a bitter aftertaste. So, how jealous was Mona Larson? Enough to make her anger public by sending Trixie Bowdeen with the message for Ginger not to attend Sig’s funeral.
Where had Mona been when she was supposedly en route to Orcas? Huggins had been unable to locate her to notify her of Sig’s death. It was an item that merited exploration, but it wasn’t top priority.
Not that many jealous spouses actually murder their spouses and their spouses’ friends.
Friends. There was that word again. Even in private thoughts I tended to gloss over it. Lover, then. Ginger and I had been lovers, briefly. And maybe Sig and Ginger had been, too. But if so, Sig was just as bad as Darrell. Ginger hadn’t faked her surprise or enjoyment, had she? No. My ego wouldn’t accept that, and no woman could be so unlucky as to have two men as insensitive and unfeeling as Darrell. No. My thoughts chased themselves full-circle. Ginger and Sig could not have been lovers.
What about Homer and Darrell? What did I know of them? Homer and Jethro, I thought.
Between them they wielded a large amount of power. With it they had imprisoned