“I know about Miri’s problems,” I said. “Go on.”
“Well, there was a bunch of guys down from Bridgeport. Not bad guys, but they get kinda rowdy when the wives aren’t around. One of them started buying Miri shots and she got rowdy too. Started making nasty remarks to the people at the next table, lobbed some popcorn at them, then threw a drink in one woman’s face. Was cussing me out and swinging at me when I cut her off. I had to escort her out. The guy went with her.”
“What time was this?”
“After eleven, but not much. Ramon came in looking for Miri around midnight.”
“You know the name of the guy she left with?”
“His friends called him Dino. Like Dean Martin, the singer.”
“What about his friends? You have a full name for any of them?”
“Only Cullen Bradley. Owns a hardware store in Bridgeport.”
“Any idea where this Dino and Miri might’ve been heading?”
“Her place? The motel? That’s the usual deal with Miri. No, wait a minute.” He touched his fingers to his brow. “Before I escorted them out the guy said something to her about the Outhouse.”
“The what?”
He smiled. “It’s a tavern, up the highway about fifteen miles. Used to be a gas station. They’ve got the best fried chicken in the county.”
Somehow I doubted Dino and Miri were headed there for the food. “Did you mention this to Ramon?”
“Yeah, I did. He wasn’t happy about it.”
“You say this place is fifteen miles up the highway?”
“Give or take.”
“Ramon couldn’t have followed them-he didn’t have a vehicle.”
“Miri did. I saw her old van in the lot when I showed them the door. But they didn’t take it; they got into a red Jeep Cherokee. And the van was gone when I closed up.”
“You notice the license plate number of the Cherokee?”
“My eyesight hasn’t been that good since 1992.”
“So you think Ramon might’ve taken the van?”
“Maybe.”
“It’s unlikely he had a key; he and Miri haven’t been on speaking terms for years.”
“Ramon wouldn’t’ve needed a key. Not old Magic Fingers.”
“What does that mean?”
“Ramon’s been hot-wiring cars since he was a kid. Made the mistake of getting caught after he was eighteen, did a stretch in prison for it.”
As I drove up the highway toward the Outhouse, I thought about the assumptions we make about people and how sometimes they’re totally wrong. Hardworking, upwardly mobile Ramon Perez-a car thief? An ex-con? Did Hy know about his past? Most likely: Vernon was a small town, and Hy had grown up there.
Why hadn’t he mentioned it to me? Probably because Ramon had turned his life around and his misdeeds weren’t relevant any more. Hy was big on giving people second chances; God knew he’d received more than his fair share of them.
It was a beautiful day, and I tried to enjoy the drive. The lake spread below me as I negotiated the road’s switchbacks, its placid surface reflecting the clear blue of the sky. In the distance I could glimpse the dark, glassy mound of Obsidian Dome, one of the many distinctive formations created by the volcanic activity that shaped this land. In 1982 the U.S. Geological Survey issued a hazard warning that an eruption the size of the 1980 Mount Saint Helens disaster could occur here at any time. The warning is in effect to this day.
After I reached the ten-mile mark, the road-still climbing-veered to the east and cut between rocky slopes to which scrub pine clung. Five miles more, and the Outhouse appeared on my left. It was a typical old-fashioned gas station with a roof over the pumps, but the main structure had been considerably enlarged; the pumps were antiques- Socony before it became Mobil Oil-and lighted beer signs hung in the front windows. I parked in the gravel lot and went inside.
In spite of being far from any town, the place was doing a good business: most of the tables and booths were taken. I found one of the last empty seats at the bar. The air was heavy with the smell of frying; my stomach rumbled in response. The best fried chicken in the county, huh? I hadn’t had really good fried chicken in ages.
The bartender was working hard; I waited, looking around at the decor: old automobile license plates from various states; signed celebrity photos from the forties and fifties; mildly amusing signs such as IN GOD WE TRUST. ALL OTHERS MUST PAY CASH; mounted animal heads wearing party hats. I’d been in other supposedly vintage places and knew decorations of this kind could be purchased new as a package from restaurant-equipment firms, but the Outhouse’s seemed to be the real thing.
When the bartender finally got to me, I ordered a Sierra Nevada and a basket of chicken and fries. The beer came quickly, the chicken much later. “Sorry about the wait,” he said as he set it down.
“No problem. You’re busy.”
“Swamped and shorthanded.” Someone down the bar called out to him, and he hurried away.
I ate slowly. The chicken was some of the best I’d ever tasted. The seats around me gradually emptied, as did the booths and tables. I was toying with a french fry when the last customer left.
The bartender-a youngish guy with long hair pulled back in a ponytail-went to the door and turned the sign to CLOSED. Came back around the bar to me and said, “Anything else, ma’am?” Clearly he hoped I’d say no.
“Some information, if you don’t mind. You hear about Hayley Perez being killed last night?”
“Yeah.” He shook his head. “Tough break, but Hayley always lived dangerously. One wild child.”
“You knew her well?”
“No. We went to high school together, but she was older and we didn’t run with the same crowd.”
“Who did she run with?”
“The wrong people. Druggies, dropouts, you know.”
“Any names?”
“Why the interest?”
“I’m a friend of the family. I’m helping them get a list together for the memorial service.”
That satisfied him. “Well, let’s see. She was tight with a girl named Loni… something, but I haven’t seen her around in a long time. Her boyfriend was Tom Mathers; he’s married now, runs a wilderness supply and guide service. And then there was Rich Three Wings; they had a thing going too, was what broke Hayley and Tom up. You can forget about him, he’d never come to a service.”
“Why not?”
“Because him and Hayley left town together and he came back alone three years later. Wouldn’t ever talk about what happened. Now he lives alone in a cabin on Elk Lake. I hear he’s got a girlfriend who lives in Vernon, spends weekends at the lake with him.”
“You know her name?”
He shook his head.
“I take it Three Wings is Indian.”
“Paiute.” He studied my features. “You’re…?”
“Shoshone.”
“Well then, maybe you can get through to Rich. You people have a way of communicating, even if you’re from different tribes.”
You people.
I’d been hearing that all my life, even back before I found out I was adopted, when I’d thought I was seven-eighths Scotch-Irish and my looks a throwback to my Shoshone great-grandmother. I counted to ten-well, seven, actually-and said, “I understand Hayley’s mother may have come in here last night. Were you working then?”
“Yeah. I’m doing a triple shift. Like I said, we’re shorthanded.”
“And Miri…?”
“She didn’t come in. I’d’ve noticed, because she’s on our watch list. Terrible, mean drunk.”
“What about her brother-in-law, Ramon?”
“He was here. Asked me about her.”
“When was this?”
“Around one. I told him I’d call if she turned up, and then he left.”
“He say where he was going?”
“Nope. He seemed kind of… I don’t know. Angry, but keeping a lid on it. Now I understand. If my niece had been murdered, I don’t know what I’d do.”