Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(53)

Lauren Pulsifer stood in the doorway, surrounded by a light that made her look like a movie angel. She had short blond hair, wide-set gray eyes, and a figure that suggested she had borne multiple children. I remembered Pulsifer saying that she used to be a teacher until the demands of the family and the farm had forced her to quit. She still did some substituting for extra cash, he’d said.

She stepped aside to let me into the mudroom. “Thank you for putting me up,” I said.

Her eyes told me I should remove my boots.

“Gary’s taking a shower.” She hung my wet coat from a deer-foot rack on the wall. I hadn’t met a game warden yet whose house wasn’t a showcase of taxidermy. “Here, let me show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

The house had a pleasantly earthy smell, a combination of apples, wood smoke, dried flowers, and wet dogs. Children’s finger paintings hung on the walls.

“How many kids do you have?” I asked out of politeness, already knowing the answer.

“Four. But Glen is away at college, and Jodi is staying at a friend’s in Kingfield. You’ll meet the others in the morning. We don’t need an alarm clock in this house. Those kids are up before the rooster.”

She showed me into a first-floor guest room with an ancient brass bed, an obviously homemade quilt, and a requisite deer-head mount to watch over me while I slept. She directed me to the nearest bathroom, then said to join her in the kitchen after I’d had a chance to clean myself up.

After she’d closed the door, I threw my duffel on the floor and sat down on the bed, feeling the weight of the day settle on my shoulders. Stacey had been right about Adam. Now that it seemed he had been murdered and that we would never meet, I found myself feeling a sadness that approached physical pain.

I missed Stacey so much and was so mad at myself for having lied to her. I checked my phone and found nothing—no voice mails, e-mails, or texts—from her. I considered calling but dreaded the prospect of her hanging up on me again.

Coward that I was, I sent her a text message instead.

I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. I am such an idiot. Please forgive me.

I’m spending the night at Pulsifer’s house in Flagstaff. Long story. I hope your cold is better. The room is cold here and the bed is small. I miss you, Stace.

I love you,

Mike

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” I said.

Pulsifer poked his head in. His hair was still damp from the shower. “I’ve got coffee brewing.”

The spaniels surged past his legs suddenly and leaped onto the bed beside me.

I scratched both under their ears. “So what are these guys’ names?”

“Flotsam and Jetsam,” he said. “Don’t blame me. The kids named them. Come on, I want to hear about your day.” He held up a finger, as if remembering something important, and stepped into the room. He closed the door and lowered his voice. “One word of warning: Lauren really hates Amber Langstrom. It goes back to when we were kids. Anyway, if she starts acting weird, I wanted you to know why.”

I remembered the unopened pint of bourbon in my coat pocket. Should I offer it as a gift for putting me up? On my way to the kitchen I stuck the bottle in my back pocket.

Lauren was frying pork belly and onions to make baked beans. The smell was intoxicating. The Pulsifers had an enormous wood-fired cooking stove that radiated so much heat, she had been forced to crack one of the windows.

Pulsifer removed two mugs from a cabinet and set them on the table.

“I don’t know if my stomach can take any more coffee,” I said.

“Do you want me to make you some decaf?” asked Lauren.

“Decaf?” said Pulsifer with a shocked expression. “What in the world is decaf? It sounds like an abomination.”

The dogs plopped down, one on each of my feet. I removed the pint of Beam from my back pocket and set it on the table. “I brought you this.”

Lauren set down her wooden spoon and smiled at me with her teeth together. “We don’t keep alcohol in the house.”

I thought I remembered drinking beer with Pulsifer some years back after one of our qualification days at the Maine Criminal Justice Academy. Maybe he’d given up the sauce. I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” I said, returning the pint bottle to my pocket.

“How about cider?” Gary said. “It’s from our own orchard.”

“That sounds great.”

“Maybe I’ll have some, too.”

Pulsifer filled my mug with apple cider and sat down at the table. There was a wooden bowl filled with dusty-looking apples between us. He took one out and began to shine it against his pant leg. “Before you tell me what you’ve been up to all day,” he said, “I have another question. How is she doing?”

Amber, he meant. “Pretty much what you’d expect. She’s convinced Adam’s dead.”

“That makes two of us, then.”

“I found out one interesting thing. She was hiding guns for him, including a Glock Nine, which he’s been carrying around ever since he got home.”

Lauren began pouring beans into a cast-iron pot. “Of course she hid guns for him.”

“Honey,” said Pulsifer.

“That woman is the most dishonest person I’ve ever met. Remember how she was in high school?”