Cantina Valley (A Ben Adler Mystery Book 1) (15 page)

“Just curious.
 
I found my dad’s setup and started listening in.”

“I thought you were totally off the grid.”

“I am.
 
For the most part.”

“You know the NSA can track short wave,” Jim said.

“I know.”
 
And Ben guessed those on the radio this morning also knew this, which is why they were speaking in code.

As Ben got up to go, Jim stopped him and said, “One thing I just remembered.
 
I hear Marlon Telford has become the biggest supplier of truffles in Oregon.”

“Truffles?”

“Yeah, the subterranean type, not the chocolates.”

“Good money in that.”

“Right.
 
And Oregon has a ton of them.
 
The rich get richer.”

Ben nodded agreement.
 
Changing the subject, he said, “Have you heard anything about the man you found dead on your property?”

“Not since I gave my last statement.
 
Why?”

“I don’t know.
 
Finding a man shot in the back of the head might be common in New Jersey, but not in Cantina Valley.”

“You got that right,” Jim said.
 
“Lester is a good man.
 
He’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“He’s not even a detective,” Ben said.
 
“I wonder if the sheriff would have assigned him the case if the victim had been a white man.
 
Or a woman.”

“You think this might be a race thing?” Jim asked.

Shrugging, Ben said, “I hope not.”

The two of them exchanged a heavy gaze.

Finally, Ben said, “I better get going.
 
My chain saw is itching for some action.”

Ben left his neighbor and drove home, knowing he had an afternoon of tree cutting ahead of him.
 
The heavy ice had taken more than a few limbs and full trees, he guessed.
 
But as he drove home, he wondered about his conversation with Jim Erickson.
 
The two of them were more alike than Ben would admit, but their differences in philosophy were as wide as the Cantina Valley.

15

Tavis McGuffin woke early like he had during his days in the Army.
 
Not so much unlike those days, he awoke in a tent.
 
But this one was a canvas hunting camp tent with a small wood stove.
 
He had been awake on and off with the sounds of rain pounding the canvas, and the snapping of branches and trees falling all around their camp.
 
At least it wasn’t as bad as early Sunday morning, where a tree fell and nearly hit his tent.
 
Then they had spent much of Sunday cutting away trees that had fallen over the road to their camp instead of actually picking mushrooms.
 
That put them behind by half a day.

He took off his black wool cap and scratched his short hair, before pulling it back over his head.
 
Then he put on the same pants he had worn for the past two days.
 
Hopefully he would be able to come down out of the Siuslaw for a shower and new clothes soon.
 
But now, as he had been in the military, he was dependent on someone else for his ride.

The small group of men had gone up into the mountains of the Oregon Coast Range to collect their share of the commercial mushroom trade allowed by the government.
 
They would probably reach the weight limit by noon, Tavis guessed.

As he put on his rain gear over his old camo uniform, he thought about his sister, Maggi.
 
He should have told her where he was going and what he was doing.
 
But Kevin had his orders from higher up.
 
None of them were to give up their location.
 
Mushroom picking grounds were classified Top Secret by those in charge—those with the most to lose by divulging that information.
 
The worst of all were the truffle hunters, though.
 
Those guys would pull a gun on someone over a coveted area of the forest, even if that location was on public land.

The Siuslaw National Forest was one of those places where anyone with a proper permit could hunt.
 
At over 630,000 acres, the forest stretched from the Pacific Ocean to the Willamette Valley, in parts of eight Oregon counties.
 
Tavis thought the forest was some of the most inhospitable tangle he had ever encountered in any mountain range.
 
Luckily they used maps, compass and GPS to keep from losing their position, or their faith.

The flap opened and their team leader entered.
 
Moose Harris (nobody knew his real given name) smiled with half of his mouth.
 
The other half held about two inches of a cigar, a regular feature on his pock-marked face.
 
Moose had to be an ironic name, since the former sailor was about five four and two hundred pounds.
 
But most of that excess weight was muscle at least.
 
Like all good chief petty officers, he walked with a swagger from either enduring heavy seas most of his adult life, or from the importance of his position in the Navy.
 
The chiefs ran the Navy.

“Guff is finally awake,” Moose said.
 
“Now we can get to work.
 
The Army must have worked banker’s hours.”

Tavis checked his watch.
 
“It’s zero six o five.
 
And while you were safely in your rack on a ship, we were sleeping in the desert fighting off spiders the size of cats and dodging bullets.”

“Hey, just busting balls, Guff.”

“What’s for breakfast?”

“Bacon and eggs.
 
Coffee is almost ready.”

“Beats the hell out of MREs.”

“You got that shit right.”

“When do you guess we’ll get out of here?” Tavis asked.

Moose drew in hard on his cigar, bringing the tip to a bright red.
 
Then he said, “I’m guessing by eleven twenty-five.
 
We should draw a pool and bet on that.”

The former chief would bet on who would take a crap first in the morning.

“No frickin’ way.
 
Some of the guys will slow down to meet their times.
 
And I need a shower.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“That’s what happens when you work for a living.”

Moose feigned disgust.
 
But he changed directions.
 
“We’ll break camp, get back down to the valley Compound, and turn around to a new location tomorrow.”

“What?
 
Once we meet our quota, we’re done.”

Moose laughed.
 
“With Matsutake.
 
We’re going to truffle camp next.”

Tavis shook his head.
 
“Those guys are assholes.”

“Preachin’ to the choir, Guff.
 
But that’s where the real money is in this game.”

Truffle hunting was back breaking work, Tavis thought.
 
He had spent two days in that camp two weeks ago, and that was bad enough.
 
“They think they shit truffles, Moose.”

“Funny you should say that.
 
Last time we were hunting white truffles, but now they’re going after the black ones.
 
They say the French and Italians had a good crop of whites, but the blacks are in high demand this year, boosting the price to thousands per pound.”

“That’s all great, but they treat the truffle dogs like royalty.”

“I know.
 
But without the dogs, we’d be running around the forest blind.
 
They save a lot of time.”

Great.
 
Tavis knew this wouldn’t be an easy transition from the Army back into civilian life.
 
He had decided to take some time off until starting college in a year on the G.I. Bill.
 
Now he thought about how nice it would be sitting in a warm classroom checking out all the young women at Oregon State.
 
Hard work did one thing, though.
 
It gave him incentive to study hard once he got to OSU.
 
Now he just needed to know what he planned to study.
 
Well, rummaging underground for expensive fungi would give him plenty of time to think, he guessed.

“Coffee should be ready by now,” Tavis said.
 
“Let’s get some.”

They finally got to their mushroom weight limit around 1000, broke down their camp in a half hour, and drove down the mountain in another hour.

•

Maggi McGuffin spent all Monday morning in union contract negotiations with the hospital representatives and nursing union reps.
 
At noon they took an hour lunch break, and it was now ten minutes before they were scheduled to get back to the grind.

Standing out in an isolated corridor near the administration conference room, she checked her phone for any possible messages from her brother or maybe a missed call from Ben, when her phone suddenly buzzed in her hand.
 
She was surprised to see her brother’s face appear.

She quickly answered.
 
“Tavis.
 
Where have you been?”

“I’m sorry, Maggi,” Tavis said.
 
“I’ve been working up in the Coast Range, picking mushrooms.
 
There’s no cell service.”

“I haven’t heard from you in a month,” she said, almost in tears.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
 
“Kevin said you came to the place where I’m staying.
 
How did you find me?”

“That’s not important.
 
What are you doing there?”

“Like I said, working.
 
Don’t get on my case.”

“I worry about you.”

“I know.
 
But you don’t have to, Maggi.”

She hesitated when she saw the hospital HR director round the corner and point at his watch.
 
In return, she put one finger up.

Maggi continued, “The locals in the area call that place the Compound.
 
It has quite a history.”

“I know nothing about that.
 
What are you getting at?”

“Are you in trouble?” she asked.

“Of course not.
 
Where is this coming from?”

“I don’t know.
 
I’ve just got a feeling.
 
The same feeling came over me when you were deployed.
 
When. . .”

“When I was shot.”

“Right.”

“The most that can happen to me hunting mushrooms is getting a bad case of trench foot.”

“What if I drive down there?” she asked.
 
“I’ll buy you dinner.”

“Don’t waste your time.
 
I have to leave again in the morning.
 
This time we’re hunting truffles.”

“I’ve never tried those.”

“Nobody has.
 
Unless you’re rich.
 
I could sneak a piece out for you if you’d like.”

“Don’t get in trouble, Tavis.”

“I’m fine.
 
I’ll call you when I get back out of the mountains.”

“All right.
 
I’ve got to get back to work.”

They both hung up and Maggi stared at her phone.
 
She had to admit that her brother sounded all right.
 
Maybe this was what he needed before starting college in the fall.
 
He had been restless after his discharge from the Army.
 
The HR director poked his head out into the hall again and smiled at her.
 
The man had very little patience, and would have had even less if he didn’t want to sleep with her—despite his marital status.
 
He had made that all too clear a month ago.

She put her phone back in her purse and went back into the conference room.