Points West (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 5) (10 page)

Upon his arrival, the
Reverend
McNab
had jokingly asked for a blood test of
the hand and when asked why explained that any sign of syphilis would prove the
former owner was a Catholic. Father White had complained that only the hand was
available to be interred to which the town drunk, Whisky Jack, responded loudly
that he’d be damned before he’d go into the woods to ask the bears to return
the rest of the body. Chuck was almost sure that Desoto’s sudden cough had been
a smothered laugh.

Before the service, the
two men of God had flipped a coin and the good father had won. As the crowd
settled down, he rose to speak first over the remains which lay in a jewelry
box set before the pulpit. Fortunately, he brought notes with him since his
memory wasn’t what it used to be. All in attendance prayed that he stayed on
track since his aging, addled mind was easily derailed and likely to ramble on
for hours before it ran out of steam.

“Friends,
Gulchers
, countrymen,” he began awkwardly, “we are gathered
here today to pay our last respects to the dearly departed, or at least a small
portion of the dearly departed.” He grumbled this last portion of his opening
under his breath.

“Not me, I’m here for the
whisky,” Whisky Jack bellowed to accompanying laughter.

“I’m sure that he, or
she, whichever the case might be, takes comfort in the fact that so many of you
have gathered to say farewell to his or her hand,” the priest continued, deftly
ignoring Whisky Jack’s comment. But then he became flustered as he flipped back
and forth through his notes. “Now this is silly,” he exclaimed, “doesn’t anyone
even know the sex of the former owner of the hand?
And what
about a name, for Saint Peter’s sake?”

“It’s a female hand, Father,” Chuck called out. “It once
belonged to a woman named Janet Dee.”

“Now I ask you,” the father said in frustration, “would it
have been too much to ask that a few of these details be shared with your
priest before the service began?”

“The whisky’s
waitin
’,
Father,” Whisky Jack reminded.

“Sweet Mary, mother of Christ, Jack. I know you are as God
made you, but would you keep your trap shut for one second? I’m trying to make
an important point here. You know how many of you showed up for confession last
Sunday?” the father asked.
“None.
That’s how many.
Now, are you trying to tell me that in a town full of the likes of you all
there’s no sinning going on?”

The audience grumbled. Chuck knew from firsthand experience
that the people of the Gulch didn’t take kindly to confrontation on their way
of life. He started to grow uneasy with so many firearms in the room.

“Now I ask you,” the father continued, “who amongst us is
without sin?”

A hand shot up from the audience. It was Kyle “the Skunk”
McIntyre. He was actually bouncing up and down in his seat he was so excited to
be picked to give the answer.

“Yes, Kyle. Do you have something to say?”

“Our Lord Jesus Christ!”
Kyle offered. “He was without sin.”

The audience murmured. “Good answer,” a few people agreed.
But then Father White made a show of looking all around the room,
even going so far as to put his hand up to shade his eyes.

“Kyle, you beloved moron of God, do you happen to see our
Lord and savior sitting anywhere in the audience today? Huh?”

“No, Father,” Kyle replied timidly. “But isn’t he here in
spirit?”

“In spirit.
But I put it to you, there is no one amongst us who is
sittin
’
here in his human flesh who is without sin—and you’re all going to hell if I
don’t have someone showing up to confession in two weeks’ time. Now, where was
I?”

“I think you were about to make one final statement,” Chuck
called in the hope of bringing this calamity to a swift conclusion.

“Thank you, Mountie,” said Father White. “In conclusion, I
pray that the dearly departed is right now in the comforting arms of our loving
Lord to live in peace and happiness forever and ever. Amen.”

“Amen!”

The father took his seat as the
Presbyterian minister, John
McNab
, rose to take his place at the pulpit. The minister
looked back to Father White and shook his head in disgust.

“Now I can see why so few
of you show up to Sunday service after having to listen to that sort of drivel
every other week,” he began.

Father White completely
missed
McNab’s
comment because he was too busy still
trying to make sense out of his notes.

“God help us all,” the
minister said.

“God help us all,” his
congregation replied dutifully.

“My father once told me a
story that I think has application in this instance.”

Oh no, Chuck thought.
Everyone in town had either experienced or heard rumor of the Reverend
McNab’s
stories. The reverend fancied
himself
a comedian, and in truth would have preferred a career on the stage to one
behind the pulpit. However, his jokes were often bad and never had anything to
do with the subject of his sermon. In fact, he spent more time rationalizing
the telling of his jokes then he did telling them in the first place.

“The foreman at a work
site finds one of his workers going through a box of nails throwing away every
other nail. He asks what the worker is doing and the worker explains that the
heads on every other nail are on the wrong end. The boss hits him in the head
and explains that those nails are for the other side of the house.”

His audience groaned in
response to this feeble attempt at humor.

“I think we can all take
comfort in that story,”
McNab
concluded.

“Whisky
time!
Whisky
time!”
Whisky Jack chanted, barely able to remain in his seat.

“A doctor, an Irishman,
and a Jew walk into a bar,” the minister began.

Just as he was about to
relate another groaner, the jewelry box before him popped open,
a
tiny ballerina pushed aside the gloved hand within, and a
music box rendition of “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” from
The Nutcracker
suite began to play as
the tiny figurine danced in place. People took this as a sign to leave.

“But wait, you haven’t
heard the best part yet,” Reverend
McNab
complained.

Desoto’s face turned a
dangerous shade of red.

Chuck finally rose and
followed the flow of people out of the room and across the street to the Lonesome
Moose for the belated wake. Inside the place the whisky ran freely and the
conversation was loud and boisterous. Whisky Jack was of course the first in
line to accept the free-flowing libation.

Chuck ran into Father
White, who had a full glass in his hand, and politely complimented him on his
sermon.

“Was I really that good?”
the father asked. “In the heat of the moment I often lose all track of what I’m
saying but trust in the Lord that what comes out of my mouth is appropriate.
It’s the stroke, you know. I’ve got a clot on the brain.”

Chuck murmured something
and fled.

“You knocked them dead,”
he told
McNab
when he ran into him a few minutes
later.

“Did I? Glad someone has
a sense of humor. Have you ever heard the one
about.…
”
the reverend began.

“Sorry, Reverend,” Chuck
interrupted, “but I see someone I need to speak with urgently.”

Chuck escaped across the
room looking for someone to speak with, anyone at all. It was his misfortune to
find that Agent Desoto was the only someone who was free to talk.

“Agent,” Chuck
acknowledged, nodding his head.

“Mountie,” Desoto
replied, doing the same. He looked like he was still having trouble strangling
a laugh.

“I hope you enjoyed the
funeral,” Chuck said.

“More than any I’ve
attended in a long while,” the agent replied. “I wish I had video.”

Chuck felt himself smile.

“I’m very glad you don’t.
We don’t need this appearing on YouTube.”

“Shall we grab a plate? I
have to admit that the food smells delicious.”

“The women in town are
mostly good cooks. Well, the Flowers and Butterscotch are.”

Chuck and Desoto loaded
their plates and found seats in the back of the room where they could sit and
watch over things. It turned out they had that in common—a tendency to like to
watch over things to make sure that the armed people around them remained calm.
They drank whisky and after a while shared one or two stories from their past
service. Butterscotch and Horace stopped by a time or two to share a word or
refill their glasses, but other than that they weren’t disturbed.

Desoto eyed Sasha with
interest and Chuck thought that maybe the agent had recognized the Butcher of
Minsk.

“This town is kind of
like a home base for a witness protection program,” Desoto muttered.

“Self-protection, a town
of last resort,” Chuck corrected.

Desoto nodded.

Later, the hand was taken
out to the blackened hollow where they had had the explosion and it was buried
there since it was the only place where the earth was broken up enough to turn
with a shovel. It was extremely awkward, but Father White insisted that a full
complement of six pallbearers be in attendance. They stumbled over each other’s
feet trying to maintain contact with the child’s jewelry box containing the
hand as they walked to the grave site.

Both of the men of God
said words over the grave as it was filled. It started to sleet. No one stuck
around to listen and they said their prayers quickly as the wind was bitter
cold. Instead, everyone returned to the Lonesome Moose and continued drinking
and dancing to fiddle music until nearly dawn.

Chuck and Desoto fell
asleep in their seats in the back of the pub, each with one eye open watching
for any sign of danger.

*
 
*
 
*

I shook Chuck gently and urged him awake.

“Let’s go home,” I said. “I can’t wash another dish. The Flowers
and I will finish cleaning in the afternoon.”

Thank heavens for leftovers because it would be a while
before I wanted to do any more cooking either.

“Desoto?”

I looked at the sleeping detective. He was snoring
peacefully, his head pillowed on his coat. The pub was almost empty. Only Big
John was left, straightening up the bar. The big clock said it was nearly four
a.m.

“Leave him for now. They’ll show him up to his room later.”

“My dad?”

“Already in bed along with the preachers.
I don’t think your dad is used to so many late nights. Were you awake to hear
him sing ‘Danny Boy’?”

“Yes, the old hambone. I’ve never seen him that drunk.”
Chuck wrapped an arm around me and nuzzled my hair. Chuck always made me feel
that my clown hair was beautiful. “Got your coat?”

“It’s in the vestibule.”

“Is it still raining?”

“Of course it is,” I said and smiled.

Chuck smiled back.

“Of course.”

Agent Desoto left the next morning though he had a hangover,
as did almost all of the Gulch residents. Sasha drove him to Seven Forks since
the weather was fair and Desoto was adamant about not flying with the Wings,
even after we extracted a promise from a barely sober Danny to behave on the
return flight.

They were getting a late start so we arranged for Desoto to
stay over with one of the Bones’ patients in Seven Forks who let rooms when he
needed extra money. Stoddard was contacted and he agreed to pick up the agent
in Seven Forks the following morning. I didn’t know if Desoto would be
submitting an expense report, but rather doubted it, which was a good thing for
us but not for him. Stoddard isn’t cheap.

Sasha decided that he would spend the night with
Anatoli
and get caught up with his old friends. The
Flowers, who was exhausted from the party and just wanted to sleep, was okay
with this.

Chuck mentioned over coffee that he would also have to leave
the next day and that he would be taking his dad with him, though Horace was
enjoying himself immensely. Chuck had called in to the office to explain his
delay in returning, because there had been an unexplained explosion while he
was visiting friends over the weekend and that it was feared there had been
some fatalities. He would take back a bit of Brian’s hair. They could test it
for a DNA match and eventually figure out the traitor was dead. Given his
background, Chuck figured that no one would be too surprised that he was dead.
We even had a convincing crater to show anyone who might show up with
questions.

We were sticking to the bear story to explain the death of
Janet Dee. Chuck had the bloody glove which would have bear saliva on it. Maybe
some wolf slobber too. In any event, it would be believed and further our
reputation as having a bear problem. That was all to the good. The fewer
visitors we got, the better it was for all of us. I did feel sorry for her
family though.