The Homeplace: A Mystery by Kevin Wolf Page B

do his own laundry and make his bed, but mastering breakfast never came to him. He picked at the pieces of shell that mixed with the egg in the pan.
    Why Coach?
    The man never had an enemy Chase knew of. Players and their parents would do anything for him. Coach Porter just wanted to help the kids and coach basketball.
    Why was he dead on his bathroom floor with a knife in his chest?
    Greasy, gray smoke from the burning eggs filled the trailer. He scooped them from the pan onto a paper plate with the bacon and burned toast, sat down at the table, and stared at the plate.
    Outside, dawn blushed new and pink on the ragged eastern horizon. Chase stepped out of the trailer into the cold of the morning and slipped into his jacket and orange vest. He thumbed three cartridges into the old Weatherby and closed the bolt on an empty chamber. He put on his gloves and orange cap. He’d hunt close to the ranch this morning. Until he could talk with Marty and find out more about what had happened to Coach, maybe searching for the old buck would keep the bad thoughts away.
    Later he’d drive to town and try to find Dolly Benavidez. He’d heard she’d be working a breakfast shift at Saylor’s. The same blood that flowed in his veins ran through hers. Coach had sent him pictures. He knew she was a pretty girl, but he’d never seen his half-sister in person.
    He slipped the rifle’s sling over his shoulder and walked out through the fading night, past the corrals and onto the prairie.
    *   *   *
    Cecil pulled the full trash bags from the cans near the gas pumps. He tied the bags shut and put new plastic liners in each of the barrels. A mud-splattered SUV pulled in to the pump closest to where he was standing. The driver, wearing a blaze-orange hat and vest, climbed out, fed his credit card into the reader, and began to fill his vehicle.
    “Mornin’.” Cecil nodded to the man. “Do any good?”
    “Could have had a doe, but I’m holdin’ out for a decent buck,” the hunter answered.
    “Where you huntin’ at?”
    The man motioned with his head. “Irv Brown’s place.”
    Cecil nodded. “Got mine yesterday just at first light,” Cecil told him. “Big four pointer. Damn nice deer.” Cecil didn’t know why he lied to people.
    “Where?” the hunter asked.
    “My place.” Cecil thought for a minute. Irv Brown’s place was south of town. “North. I own four sections up there.”
    “Must keep you busy.”
    “I farm ’cause it’s somethin’ I’ve always done.” Cecil jerked a thumb toward the gas station office. “Own this place to make a little money.”
    None of it was true. Cecil lived in a rented trailer parked in the lot down by the railroad tracks. He could no more run a farm than the man in the moon, and he was low man on the totem pole at Town Pump. That’s why he was emptying trash and working the Sunday morning early shift. But Cecil would never see the hunter again, so why not let the man think he was more important than he really was?
    The hunter waved as he drove away. Cecil carried the trash to a Dumpster around back. Inside Town Pump, he poured a cup of coffee, slipped onto the stool behind the counter, and adjusted the volume on the TV set. He wished the boss would put in a satellite dish. The only thing the rabbit ears picked up was the Fox station from Colorado Springs, and all that was on was news.
    Outside, Brandon was waking up. Lights came on in the homes. Cecil guessed this Sunday morning would be like all the others, except for some extra business from the deer hunters coming in for gas and beer. Townsfolk would drift to church. A few might stop in for a cup of coffee on the way. After church, Saylor’s would fill up, and those who hadn’t made their Saturday trip to the Walmart in Lamar would head that way in the afternoon.
    Mercy’s Lincoln sped down the highway and turned into the gravel lot at Saylor’s Café. He watched her pull around back. In a minute, lights in the little