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Once he was out of Winslow, he pulled out the sandwich and had it eaten by the time he’d slowed to enter Alder. He headed up Hurricane Creek Road and found the Greeley place easily.
The large old farm house had been well tended. The white sides didn’t show any weathering, the green metal roof looked fairly new. The yard, for November, was short cropped and the flower beds all clipped back and mulched. The Greeley’s took pride in their home.
Hawke walked up the paving stones to the front door and knocked. He liked that most of the rural houses didn’t have doorbells. It seemed to be something that town dwellers used.
A dog barked. Not a big dog. A small yappy type. Hawke didn’t care. He could get along with most animals.
The door opened. A woman in her sixties, wearing an apron like his mom wore a good deal of the time when she was cooking, peered at him from behind cat-eye spectacles. “May I help you?”
A white curly-haired dog stood behind her feet, yapping.
“Mrs. Greeley?” he asked, loud enough to be heard over the dog.
“Yes?” She reached down and picked up the dog. “Cotton, shush.” The fluffy dog stopped barking and stretched its neck, sniffing.
“I’m State Trooper Hawke. I have some questions about D.A. Lange and the assistant that left right before you retired.”
“Oh my!” She opened the screen door. “Come in. Has something happened to Travis?” She put the dog down and pivoted.
Hawke thought that was an interesting question. “Why would you think that?”
Mrs. Greeley glanced over her shoulder as she led him into the kitchen, the small dog following right behind. “Because usually when a policeman shows up, something has happened to someone. And you mentioned the assistant that left before I retired. I put two and two together.”
A buzzer went off. “Just a minute. I have a cake in the oven.”
He stood by the kitchen door as the woman pulled two round cake pans out of the oven. After placing them on the racks on the counter, she pushed buttons on the oven.
“Please, have a seat. I’ll get you coffee, unless you prefer milk with your cookies?” she asked.
He grinned. He could see why Darlene and this woman were friends. “Coffee is fine.” The kitchen was clean, neat, and cheery. He liked the whimsical birds on the curtains.
She placed the coffee and a plate of sugar cookies in front of him and untied her apron, placing it over a chair back before she sat down across from him with her own cup of coffee. “What do you want to know about Travis?”
“Nothing actually. I’m more interested in Benjamin Lange, but I heard there was an argument before Travis left the D.A.’s Office.” He sipped his coffee and saw the wheels spinning behind the woman’s eyes.
“I’m not sure what Travis’ argument with Mr. Lange would have to do with whatever you want to know about the district attorney.” She picked up a cookie and slid the plate closer to Hawke.
He took the hint and snagged a cookie. “I’m trying to find out why Travis left. Did it have anything to do with Mr. Lange’s ethics?”
“Oh, I see. Not really. It was his telling Travis to do one thing, then turning around and telling Travis he should have done something different. It’s as if the man couldn’t make up his mind.” She shook her head. “I know at the time Mr. Lange was dealing with his mother going into a home and his wife leaving him, but he really shouldn’t have taken it all out on his assistant.”
“His wife leaving? Did she have a large divorce settlement?” Besides paying for his mother’s stay in a home, if he were doling out money to his ex, it would make sense about his need for money and selling the tag, even if it went against his morals.
“Not really. I know she did get something though. Afterall, she worked while Mr. Lange was going to college. She mainly just wanted out. I don’t know how many times I heard her refer to him as a cold fish.” Mrs. Greeley’s eyebrows raised. “A marriage that is cold isn’t worth keeping. And I told her that one day when she was pacing back and forth in the hallway trying to get up the nerve to tell him she wanted a divorce.”
The woman’s cheeks reddened. “That’s also the day Travis came along and quieted her.”
Hawke had a feeling he knew why Lange sent the assistant packing. “Were Travis and Mrs. Lange having an affair?”
Mrs. Greeley gave one brief nod. “They were good for one another.”
“Are they still together?”
“I get a Christmas card from them every year. They are both quite happy. Travis is the District Attorney in Marion County.” Mrs. Greeley narrowed her eyes. “What do you think Mr. Lange did?”
“I can’t say. Did you ever see him do anything unethical?”
She shook her head. “No. That man was by-the-book.”
“You don’t think losing his wife to his assistant or anything else would have pushed him to do something unethical?”
“No. He might have been a bit scattered for a while, but he never did anything that would hurt his job or reputation.”
That bothered Hawke. If he was so ethical, why did he give his hunting tag to Sigler, a known poacher?
“Thank you, I appreciate you visiting with me. And the cookies were delicious.” He smiled as he picked up another one.
“You’re welcome. I hope I was helpful.” She walked him to the door.
“If you wouldn’t mind. Could I get a phone number for Travis and the former Mrs. Lange?”
“Just a minute. They are Mr. and Mrs. Needham now.” She reached into a rolltop desk in the living room and pulled out an address book.
Hawke opened his notepad and waited.
She rattled off their address and phone number. “Lorraine is pregnant. Something she wanted with Mr. Lange, but he wasn’t ready. Or that’s what he told her.”
Hawke nodded. He understood the D.A. There was a time when he wasn’t ready for kids either. After the way things turned out, he was glad he and his wife hadn’t conceived. It had made her leaving him and disappearing completely from his life not as hard as it would have been had she taken the kids and never let him see them.
“Thank you for all your help.” He left the house and climbed into his vehicle. He had one day to find something to link anyone with Sigler’s death. Then he was back to patrol.
There had to be something.
His phone buzzed. The number was familiar.
“Hawke,” he answered.
“This is Barney Price, you left a message to call you.”
“Yes. Are you back home?” The background noise sounded like the man was in a moving vehicle.
“Headed there today. I stopped off at a friend’s place... in Pendleton.” The man’s tone conveyed it wasn’t any of Hawke’s business.
“When did you purchase the hunting package from Duane Sigler?”
“This have something to do with my court hearing?”
“No. It has to do with the death of Duane Sigler.” It was blunt, but the man wasn’t being all that cooperative.
“He’s dead! Shit! I’ll never get my money back.” The man groaned. “My wife is going to kill me.”
So much for any sympathy for the dead man.
“When did you send him money? I’m assuming it was before the hunt so he could stock up on food and essentials.”
“He fed me canned stew and chili. Said it was the real hunting experience.” Price scoffed. “I should have known when his price was half what most guides charged that it would be a hokey hunt. By the time I pay all the fines, it will have cost me more than a legit guide, and I’ll have nothing.”
“Does that make you mad?”
There was silence for several seconds. “Do you mean mad enough to kill Sigler? No. I’m mad I won’t be able to take him to court and get my money back.”
“When did you send him the money?”
“Why do you need to know?”
“It’s part of his murder investigation.” Hawke wasn’t going into detail with the man. If he had an inkling Hawke suspected the D.A., the man could use that as recourse to get his fines thrown out. He was just as guilty of using another person’s tag as Sigler was for telling him it was okay. Price should have read up on the rules and known.
“It was in September. I contacted several guides in the area. Sigler was the cheapest. My wife wasn’t crazy about me spending money on a guide, but I hadn’t gone hunting enough to feel confident on my own. I’d bragged to some buddies that I could bag an elk. After I said it, I had to do it.” The man’s bravado was weakening.
“Thank you. That will be helpful. Don’t forget your court date. You don’t want a warrant out after you.” Hawke disconnected and put the date in his logbook.
He headed back to Alder. A look at the financial records might help him connect the dots. But what of Sigler’s claim the D.A. gave him the tag? How had it been delivered? Face-to-face? He doubted that. Lange wouldn’t be that careless when doing something illegal. The mess he’d witnessed in the camp trailer when he’d discovered the body, there was a good chance the evidence of the transaction was in Sigler’s house.
Hawke contacted Donner.
“Donner.”
“This is Hawke. I’d like to go through Sigler’s house.”
There were a couple seconds of silence. “You’re not a detective, Hawke.”
“I know. But if Sigler is telling the truth, Lange sent him or gave him the tag. There might be evidence in the house. I can see a man like Sigler hanging onto something that might get his butt out of trouble with the law.”
“Have a look. But you bring me anything you find. I’m on another homicide in Union right now.” Donner closed the connection.
It appeared the State Detective for this region was tied up. Good thing Hawke’s need to know answers had been roused.
He continued through Alder and Winslow and arrived at Sigler’s house in Eagle thirty minutes later. Standing in front of the house, he realized he didn’t have a way to get in. He’d have to hope at least one window wasn’t painted shut.
Even though the door had been locked when he’d visited two days before and the man who lived there was dead, he tried the front door. Locked. He started clockwise around the house checking windows and came to the back door. He stepped onto the three-by-four wooden platform that made up the backdoor stoop and grasped the door knob.
It turned.
Thankful he didn’t have to climb through a window, Hawke pushed the door open. Musk and the sour odor of unwashed body sailed out the door on a rush of hot air.
He went in search of the heat source. It was an oil stove, nearly invisible for the clothing hanging over the chairs in front of it. It appeared Sigler had washed his clothes by hand either in the sink or the bathtub and hung them up to dry in front of the stove. He’d had the time to do his laundry before he’d met his killer.
Hawke switched the heater off and began searching the house for paperwork. Bills. Letters.
There were old bills in a drawer in a small desk that had seen better days. He didn’t find any correspondence with Price. There should have been their contract and anyone else that Sigler may have duped into a hunting expedition.
He moved into the bedroom. The sheets on the bed had at one time been light blue. At least by the look of the sheet drawn over the corner of the bed. Hawke felt a pang of sympathy for the man. He lived alone and it appeared wasn’t much good at doing household chores. It surprised him that the type of man Sigler was, he hadn’t taken a wife just to do his laundry and keep the bed clean.
Maybe this day and age there weren’t that many desperate women.
He picked at the piles of clothing. The third pile of towels, he kicked and heard what sounded like cardboard.
Hawke pulled on rubber gloves and picked the stained towels off a box of letters and papers. He packed the box into the kitchen, placing it on the table. The light over the table illuminated letters with postmarks from the past year.
He found the contract between Sigler and Price. The wording on the contract sounded legal and like the hunting trip would have been more extravagant than what Price received. Maybe Sigler’s clients forgot the lousy food once they bagged a nice bull elk.
In what his mother called chicken scratches, the penmanship was so bad, Sigler had printed paid 9/2. That meant the money would have gone into his account that day or later. He’d check August and September for a payment into Lange’s account.
But what he really wanted was something that proved the district attorney had given the tag to Sigler.
Hawke dug down in the box and found an envelope from the county court and District Attorney Benjamin Lange. After checking the envelope and finding it empty, Hawke pulled an evidence bag from his coat pocket. He slid the envelope inside the evidence bag and labeled it.
Could there have been a letter with the envelope? Possibly something unrelated to a hunting tag. Digging through all the papers in the box, he didn’t find anything that appeared to have come from the district attorney.
It wasn’t conclusive. They would only have Lange’s word on why Sigler had an envelope from the D.A., but Hawke hoped it was enough to get more people, besides himself, involved in learning more about Lange.