Murderers Creek (Maggie Blackthorne Book 2) Read online

  Murderers Creek

  LaVonne Griffin-Valade

  MURDERERS CREEK

  Copyright © 2021 by LaVonne Griffin-Valade.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Severn River Publishing

  www.SevernRiverPublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-64875-144-8 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-64875-145-5 (Hardback)

  Contents

  Also By LaVonne Griffin-Valade

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Join the Reader List

  You Might Also Enjoy…

  Thanks for Reading

  Next in Series

  Read Desolation Ridge

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also By LaVonne Griffin-Valade

  Maggie Blackthorne Novels

  Dead Point

  Murderers Creek

  Desolation Ridge

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  SevernRiverPublishing.com/LaVonne

  For Tom

  In memory of my mother

  Prologue

  February 11

  Six Months Before

  The weather had turned again, fog drifting, diffusing the glow of headlights. In the swollen river at the edge of the highway, an uprooted and foundering juniper bucked and dipped, caught in the icy roil of black water.

  Up ahead in the oncoming lane, four-way emergency lights flashed. I decelerated my Chevy Tahoe, pulled forward slowly, and set the brake. Out of the thick mist, the subject of the other driver’s warning to traffic stepped into the glare of my high beams. A massive Black Angus bull had wandered through Barton Oliver’s barbed wire fencing and parked himself on my side of Highway 26, his bulk virtually invisible in the evening wall of weather.

  I needed to get the animal off the foggy, unlit road so we could all move along safely and before some unsuspecting driver pounded into him at forty miles an hour. I turned on my overhead light bar, rolled down the driver’s side window, whistled and called out to the animal. After a time, I honked and tapped the siren.

  One or two vehicles lined up behind my SUV, as well as behind the truck flashing its emergency lights up ahead on the opposite side of the beast. I heard people call out to drivers parked behind them, passing along word there was a bull in the road. Encased in haze, the sound of idling engines and the churning river closed in.

  I whistled, called out again to the bull, and gave another honk and siren tap. He shifted his great head toward me, took a heavy step in my direction, ground away at his ample cud. He would have done considerable damage to the grill of my Tahoe if he had decided to charge. Instead, he bellowed.

  Heat rose from his broad back, merging with the surrounding vapor and the scattered glare of my headlights. The bull’s deep, full breaths were audible, and I smelled the scent of grass as he chewed. A magnificent animal.

  I opened the door, climbed out slowly, and pulled up my Glock. “Come on, boy. Time to get out of the road.”

  He snorted and turned, sauntered across the other side of the highway. I holstered my weapon, stepped to my rig, and switched on the spotlight. The animal lumbered in great heaving strides up the hill and crossed over the downed fencing.

  I got back in my Tahoe, shut off the spotlight, and pulled up alongside the truck with its four-way flashers still going.

  Duncan McKay lowered the driver’s side window on his feed-and-tack store truck. “Maggie, I think we just saved Barton’s stud bull from a meet up with oblivion.”

  “I’ll circle back to Barton’s place and let him know,” I said.

  “No need. On my way there now with a delivery.”

  From his speakers came the intoxicating sound of Chris Rea on his Fender Stratocaster and singing “Texas.”

  “Nice,” I said.

  1

  Morning, August 13

  I had begun to think I’d finally seen the last of my second ex-husband. Yet here was Jeremy T. Lake in the flesh, standing inside my police station in his civilian gear. Tight Wranglers, a blue-flowered polyester button-down shirt, and a giant belt buckle hideously embossed with a star, a knock-off of the official Oregon State Police badge. His version of fancy duds, I presumed.

  Up until nine months ago, J.T. had been my district supervisor, although stationed a good distance away in La Grande. But after some nasty sexual harassment complaints last winter, he’d been demoted from lieutenant to sergeant and sent off to some desk job at regional dispatch in Bend. We now held the same rank, and any deference I’d once been expected to show—at least publicly—to the self-important ass was no longer a professional requirement.

  “Sergeant Blackthorne,” he said as I hung my cap on its hook by the door. “A word in private?”

  “Not much privacy here, Sergeant Lake.”

  The man cringed when I referred to him by his post-demotion title. But we both knew I’d called him a lot worse. We also both knew he was lucky he’d been allowed to stay on the force at all.

  “You still got a storage room, right?” he asked.

  I walked behind the front counter and dumped my pack on my desk. “You talking about our fancy conference room in back?”

  J.T. lowered his voice. “You still think you’re awfully witty, too.” The little twitch in his jaw was the telltale sign he was working at controlling his temper.

  “I’ll be in a meeting with Sergeant Lake,” I said to Sherry Linn Perkins, our relatively new office manager seated at the front counter.

  Sherry Linn had already made life around here a lot more pleasant, despite her froufrou outfits. Or maybe because of them. No matter what, the woman was perky and amiable and good at her job.

  I pointed toward the storage room. “Grab a folding chair and follow me, Sergeant.”

  The musty space was crammed with boxes of printer ink cartridges, office supplies, bundles of paper towels, and rolls of toilet tissue. We set up our separate folding chairs as far away from one another as we possibly could.

  I left the door open a notch, sat, and checked the time: five after eight. “You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

  He removed his overly large, black cowboy hat. “I’m getting married.”

  “You came all the way from Bend to tell me you’re getting married?”
<
br />   He nodded.

  “Congratulations?”

  “And to ask you for a favor.”

  As a reflex, I massaged the old burn scar on my right shoulder. The result of our last ugly battle, but not the end of the war between us. “A favor?”

  He indicated my shoulder. “Been meaning to tell you how sorry I am about that.”

  “Sorry? About what?”

  “That burn on your shoulder. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. It really was an accident.”

  I didn’t believe he was sorry. Not then, not now. And no way in hell was it an accident. “What’s the favor you came to ask for?”

  He handed me a form from the Catholic Diocese of Oregon.

  “Diocesan Tribunal? Petition for Declaration…” Jesus Christ. I needed glasses. Or I was in shock. More likely, all this was just some new kind of dick move on J.T. Lake’s part. “Petition for Declaration of Nullity of Marriage? What the fuck?”

  “I’m Catholic. I can’t marry another Catholic without it. Especially the kind of Catholic this woman is.”

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “I need your sign-off so I can marry this gal in the Catholic Church. That’s the only way she’ll have it.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “What’s her damn name?”

  “Margaret Kennedy.”

  “You’re marrying another Margaret?”

  “Why the hell do you care?”

  I truly didn’t give a flying fuck, but I did enjoy rattling his chain.

  “I’ve already filled in the form, all you have to do is sign it,” he said. “It’ll be like we were never married. At least, you know, not in the eyes of…you know…”

  “Are you kidding? Since when did you become a practicing Catholic?”

  “Since I met Margaret.”

  “And does Margaret know you like to slap women around?”

  “I’m not like that anymore.”

  “Like hell. Maybe I should get in touch with her and give her a heads-up.”

  He tossed me one of his malevolent looks and a bitter smile. “That wouldn’t be such a good idea, now would it, Blackthorne?”

  No, it wouldn’t be. Not unless I was prepared to have shit from the past rain down on my life, my career.

  He pointed to the form. “A single signature and date. At the bottom where it says ‘Respondent.’”

  “If I sign this thing, does that get you out of my life for good?”

  “It gets me married to a good-looking woman who’s not too bright, but not too dumb.”

  “Be sure to pass along my condolences.”

  J.T. smiled. “You always were a smartass.”

  I whipped the document through the stale air. “Do you want my signature on this damn thing or not?”

  He pulled out one of his fancy, show-off pens. “God, woman. Just get it over with.”

  I took the pen and stood up. Holding the petition against the wall, I signed and dated it. “Is that it?”

  He re-folded the document and put on his black Stetson. “Yep. Now we’re as done as we’re ever gonna be.”

  Sherry Linn eyed J.T. as he stalked out of the trooper station. “Are you okay, Sergeant?”

  “Call me Maggie, remember? And I’m fine.”

  “None of my business, but it didn’t sound like you were having a pleasant conversation in there.”

  “Ah, you know, just the annual airing of grievances.”

  Sherry Linn clicked on her desk fan. “Have you known Sergeant Lake long?”

  “Afraid so.”

  She brought out a pack of gum from her desk drawer. “He kind of reminds me of my ex.”

  I laughed.

  “That’s funny?”

  “It’s just. Well, the bastard is my ex.”

  She giggled. “I’ve never heard you swear before.”

  “I’ve been on my best behavior while you’re settling in.”

  “Please stop. I can out-cuss everybody I know. My version of blood pressure medicine.” She started to place the stick of cinnamon gum in her mouth. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, Trooper Jones is running a little late.”

  Hollis Jones was subject to the whims of a toddler who liked his mornings early, which meant most of the time Holly arrived earlier than regular office hours, not later.

  “Also, Sergeant. I mean Maggie. A bulletin came in from dispatch about five minutes ago. Seemed kind of urgent.”

  I fired up my new computer, some kind of reward for wrapping up the investigation of three local murders a while back. I opened the report from regional and read the fugitive alert. Vincent Cruise, Jr., age twenty-two, and Anna Jo Porter, age twenty-five—OxyContin dealers, ex-cons, and likely armed—were spotted heading south on Highway 19 out of Condon driving a blue 1978 Toyota Celica GT.

  The duo’s mug shots made them out to be rough, mangy, and high as hell. And now they were apparently traveling through the eastern Oregon outback for God only knew what purpose.

  In the background, I heard Sherry Linn and Hollis exchange greetings. He slipped into the alcove where our desks were corralled and tossed his keys down on the desk across from mine.

  “Morning, boss. Sorry for being tardy. I suppose you need to dock my pay now.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Come here and take a look at this bulletin.”

  He moved behind my chair and peered over my shoulder.

  “I’m printing the info out now,” I said.

  “What is it you always call OxyContin traffickers? Oxy slingers?”

  “Yeah. I’d like to take credit for that bit of slang, but I read it in some mystery novel a while back.”

  I stepped to the printer to collect the copies just as Sherry Linn patched a call through to my desk.

  “Answer that for me, H,” I called to Hollis.

  I collated and stapled five sets of the bulletin and returned to my desk. “Jesus. We’ve got a couple of sweetie pies on the loose out there.”

  I handed a copy to Hollis.

  He perused it and held it aloft. “That was Dave Shannon on the phone. Looks like these two stole his new Ford F-150. Left their old Toyota Celica for a replacement.”

  “I warned Dave not to park his truck next to the highway. Nothing but a scofflaw attractant.”

  “He’s pretty riled up about it all.”

  “Let’s head over there, Holly, take his report, and check out the Toyota.”

  Hollis glanced at his watch. “No can do. I’ve got a report to write. Plus Lil has a doctor’s appointment at ten, and I need to hang out with Hank.”

  “Is Lil okay?”

  “Oh yeah. Just her annual physical.”

  “Huh. You’re supposed to get one of those every year? Who knew?”

  “That’s only a recommendation for normal people, Sarge, not for invincible folks like yourself.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I picked up a copy of the bulletin and grabbed my pack. “Call Dave and tell him I’m on my way, would you? And send Lil my love and be sure to give Hank a kiss from Auntie Maggie.”

  “Speaking of kisses from Auntie Maggie, are you still up for babysitting the little guy this Saturday?”

  “You bet,” I said, and for good measure, signed myself out until ten o’clock on the magnetic employee in-and-out board Sherry Linn had installed next to the front door.

  It made me smile just to think about the in-and-out board. Despite being squeezed together in what was a steamy hot box this time of year, our little law enforcement outpost was in a better place than we’d been when J.T. Lake was district head. Not only had we been allocated the funds to hire Sherry Linn, we were able to fill the vacancy for our second Fish and Wildlife officer.

  Trooper Doug Vaughn and Mark Taylor, our long-time game warden, had quickly joined at the hip and taken on each other’s quirks and tics. I was the only one who ever got annoyed with the two men, but I was often the only person in the office to be an
noyed by niggling shit. And why I relied on Holly to remind me to get over myself about the antics of Taylor and Vaughn.

  Speaking of which, I saw they were both signed out until four. Taylor was leading Vaughn on a tour of the Strawberry Mountain Wilderness Area. I envied them and their choice of patrolling that mountain, and thus avoiding our ninety-five-degree heat wave. A picnic at Strawberry Lake sounded perfect, in fact. I decided I’d phone Duncan McKay and suggest we head there for supper.

  Dave Shannon raised sheep on his ninety acres outside Mt. Vernon along Highway 26, about nine miles west of my police station. Nice guy, but a little gullible and naive. Which was far more tolerable than the suspicious, ornery, often heavily armed folks that tended to inhabit my county.

  He was waiting for me when I arrived, and from the way he was eyeing the junky Toyota parked where the F-150 was supposed to be, it appeared he’d lost some of his trusting outlook.

  “Asshole,” he huffed. Well over six feet tall with blondish hair and brown eyes, Dave could have been twenty-five or thirty-five, having one of those faces that seem to age at an unnaturally slow pace.

  “Now I’m pretty sure you’re not referring to me,” I said.

  “Of course not, Maggie. It’s just, well, I’d never had a new rig before.”