Restless in the Grave by Dana Stabenow Page B

remained silent, and the blonde said, “You don’t remember me.”
    It was a statement, not a question, so Kate didn’t say anything.
    “Anchorage,” the other woman said, sitting down across from Kate and putting her own feet up. She’d brought her beer with her and it rested on her belly, clasped between her hands. “Eight years ago. You were testifying at the inquest of the death of Cornelius Bradley, the guy who cut your throat.” She looked at it. “The scar’s faded a lot.”
    In lieu of reaching up to touch the scar, a tell she’d thought she had rid herself of, Kate took a drink.
    “It was the only court case I ever reported on,” the blonde said.
    Kate stopped with her drink halfway to her mouth. “Joan Dunaway.”
    “Jo,” the other woman said. “Just Jo is fine. Did you see the story?”
    “I saw it.”
    “The city editor butchered it before it went to print.”
    “Always the editor’s fault,” Kate said, and smiled without humor. “At least that’s what every reporter I’ve ever met says.”
    “Edna Buchanan says there are three rules for the rookie journalist,” Joan Dunaway said. “One, never trust an editor. Two, never trust an editor.” Her smile was bleak. “Bet you can guess the third one.”
    “Bet I can,” Kate said. “You still a reporter?”
    “You still a private investigator?”
    So she knew that much. Kate raised her glass and sipped. Her lower back ached from all the bending and lifting. Her own personal masseur, alas, was at present somewhat east of her current location.
    “Are you working, here in Newenham, on a case?” Dunaway asked.
    “Are you working, here in Newenham, on a story?” Kate asked.
    They stared at each other some more. Mutt’s ears flicked at the back and forth, but she left her head on Kate’s knee.
    “Because,” Dunaway said, “I doubt very much that you’ve left your home, your adopted son, and your state trooper roommate to take up the profession of bartending six hundred miles away.”
    She’d done her homework, damn her for being a good reporter. “I doubt very much that you flew three hundred miles into the Alaskan Bush in January just to visit friends.”
    “Depends on the friend.” Dunaway took a sip of her beer. “Does your case have anything to do with Eagle Air?”
    Kate didn’t flinch, but it was a near thing. “Does your story have anything to do with Eagle Air?”
    Silence.
    Kate took another drink. The Fresca was getting pretty low in the glass. She craned her neck to look at the clock on the wall. “I’ve got ten minutes left on my break. I was thinking of taking a little nap.”
    “I’m not going anywhere,” Dunaway said.
    Kate put some steel into her voice. “Sure you are. You’re leaving this room.”
    “I’m not done asking questions.”
    “Tonight you are.” Kate put her now-empty glass on the desk, let her head fall back against the chair, and closed her eyes. Probably what she should have done when Dunaway walked in.
    After a moment Dunaway’s chair creaked, and the door opened and closed again, shutting out the noise of the bar.
    Kate opened her eyes and looked down at Mutt. “Another fine mess I’ve gotten us into, did you say?”
    Mutt’s wise yellow eyes blinked up at her.
    “Don’t you just hate being right all the time?” Kate said.
    Dunaway had left the bar when she came out of Bill’s office, and Kate went back to work. She kept the bar clean, washed glasses, ran food and tickets, and made countless rounds with a loaded tray and an ingratiating smile, which might have been the most difficult part of the whole job. Her ass was patted, slapped, and pinched, and one of the two young men playing cribbage made repeated attempts to see her later. “I’m old enough to be your mother,” she told him.
    Well, maybe only his much older sister. His enthusiasm, if anything, increased. Cougar Town .
    At the end of the evening her back ached, her feet hurt, she smelled of soured beer and her own