The Holmstead house was a traditional two-story that would have been at home on any Pennsylvania farm. Gus led her up the porch, through the front door, and past the formal sitting room to the less formal eat-in kitchen at the rear of the house. The kitchen faced south, its bay window overlooking the sprawling pasture where the llama roamed. Some were big and stout, obviously pack animals. Others had more elegant features and long hair in a variety of deep, rich shades. The alpacas raised for wool—or was it hair when it didn’t come from a sheep? Lucy had no clue.
“Are alpacas llamas or are llamas alpacas?” she asked, as Gus poured two mugs of coffee for them and joined her at the table by the window. His limp was severe enough that he sloshed coffee almost over the brim of the cups but his glare sat her down when she rose to help.
“Don’t make fun of my buddies,” he chided her. “They saved this place. Back when my wife was still alive, twenty some years ago, we were about to go under. The economy was in the toilet, and no one wanted to buy a place like this out in the middle of nowhere—not with all the government regulations on the land surrounding us. No one cared that a hundred and fifty years ago there was supposed to be enough gold on this land to start a country of your own.”
“Gold?” Deena had mentioned something about Bill searching for hidden treasure. Before he became obsessed with the idea of a serial killer prowling his county.
“You know about Lloyd Magruder, how he was murdered for a few sacks of gold dust? Well, that was nothing compared to the gold his brother found. Right here on this land.”
“Where?”
He chuckled. “That’s the problem. Damn fool buried it to hide it from claim jumpers, but then got lost in a blizzard and died on his way home before he could tell anyone where he’d hid it. It was a miracle his poor wife was even able to hang onto the land at all. But she did. Just like my Betty, she wouldn’t give up. Betty, she got the whole llama thing up and running. She dug in, joined groups on the internet—there weren’t so many back then—asked questions of anyone who had something to offer. We were doing just fine until she died, and I—” He waved a futile hand at his legs. He took a long sip of his coffee.
Lucy waited. She could offer empty words of comfort, but to a man like Gus, she sensed they’d be meaningless.
“You’re like Bill,” he finally said. “A good listener. Not like those other fools who keep coming by. I tell them they’re looking in the wrong place, but no one believes me.”
“Why do you think they’re looking in the wrong place?”
“Bill. That morning he was here, we talked about all sorts of things. Like always. Where the huckleberries were ripe for picking.” He stopped. “Amy will have my hide. Hang on.” Before Lucy could offer to help, he’d pushed back from the table, gotten up, and brought back a plate of cornbread and a jar of jam. “Sorry about that. I’ve no appetite these days, and sometimes forget my manners. Go on, now. Amy will count ’em when she comes in, and she’ll be insulted if you don’t take some.”
Lucy smiled. The cornbread had a delicate golden crust and was light and fluffy, the scent of cinnamon wafting from it. She slathered a piece with the jam and tried it. “Delicious,” she said before she finished chewing. And she meant it.
“I told Amy where to find the best huckleberries. It’s her first try at making jam, but she did good.”
“She did,” Lucy agreed, helping herself to a second piece. “So you were saying…”
“Right. Bill and I, we were talking about cases—I used to be a county commissioner. Thankless job. Everyone wants something, but there’s never enough to go around. The fire department and ambulance crew are volunteer. Half our deputies are volunteer reserve. Harriet, the sheriff’s department dispatcher, actually draws her pay from the federal because she’s also our postmistress. Constant robbing Peter to pay Paul.”
“They were lucky to have you.”
He snorted. “Same three people run for election every year—power hungry. Nelson Vrynchek, who owns an equipment company, wants first dibs on any new logging or road maintenance contracts. Mickey Durham, he always runs for treasurer—he’s cooking the books, I’m sure, but no one’s been able to catch him. And Verna Highsmith, she’s been secretary for going on two decades, I swear just to be first to get the best gossip. The other three seats are at-large members and if no one runs for them, we hold a lottery of registered voters who are permanent residents. That’s how bad it’s gotten around here—all’s that left is a bunch of old folks like me, and no one gives a damn.”
“Was Bill interested in becoming a commissioner?”
“No, no. He was interested in when I was one. You know he’s been digging into all the death investigations—determined to find a real case he can sink his teeth into. Poor guy, only been here a year and already bored to tears. I’m not sure he’ll last. Anyway, that’s why they’re looking in the wrong place for Bill. Amy told me where they were searching; said it was based on tracking his phone. It’s everything east and north of here. Which is wrong. I don’t know nothing about phone tracking, but I know tracking people. And you start with where they were last seen and where they were going.”
“And Bill wasn’t going east or north?”
“No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. A couple of times when I was commissioner, we had to call in the coroner over in Idaho County to handle a death because Judith was out of town. Carruthers. What a horse’s ass. Took forever to get here, insisted on all these fancy tests—that came out of our budget—and twice he got it wrong. And he’s an M.D. When Judith got back and reviewed everything, she figured things out and set him straight. We’re lucky to have her. She’s the smartest doctor—human or animal or any other kind—I’ve ever met.”
“So Bill was interested in Judith’s cases?” Lucy asked, trying to steer him back on track without curtailing his thoughts. Often it was something a witness considered irrelevant that ended up breaking a case.
“Not just Judith’s—that doctor over in Grangeville as well. That’s where Bill said he was headed. Said he wanted to talk to the Idaho County coroner.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice as if someone might be listening. “You see, Bill thought he was after a serial killer. Someone hiding in plain sight, he said. Said he figured a killer wouldn’t care about lines on a map, they’d be killing in both counties, maybe even up on the rez. Anywhere they could get away with murder.”