B.B. Cantwell - Portland Bookmobile 02 - Corpse of Discovery Read Online Free PDF

in salute and
waggling the other hand over his chest. She was introducing a news story.
    “And now we have
a live report from veteran reporter Misty Day at the scene of the apparent
murder of Portland civic leader Pieter van Dyke, on the edge of Forest Park.
Misty?”
    Charbonneau’s
head jerked as if he’d been slapped the way Wife No. 3 used to do. His wineglass
dropped and shattered, soaking a rug with several ounces of a very nice Sancerre.
    *     *     *
    On rural Sauvie
Island, 10 miles northwest of downtown, the Portland area’s most famous nude
beach was sprinkled with its usual cross-section of patchouli-scented hippie
women, aging gay men and grizzled old bikers with more faded tattoos than
anyone ever wanted to see. As usual, binocular-toting crews on heavily laden
container ships plodding up the Columbia River crowded the starboard railing to
get a look at their next port of call – and anything else they could see.
    Mostly farmland
and wildlife refuge, the island was where Hester’s parents had taken her as a
child to pick pumpkins at Halloween. Her mother had delighted in spying for
migrating buffleheads and mergansers there with her Audubon chapter while her
father explored the back roads with his teachers’ cycling group.
    Down the road
from the nude beach, it was another sunny June day at Downward Dog Farm. Ma
Anand Martha was out in the farmyard petting the chickens, each of whom had a
name and none of whom would ever be slaughtered. Downward Dog Farm had some of
the oldest chickens in Oregon.
    What it didn’t
have was a television.

 
    Chapter 5
     
     
    “So everyone’s
favorite Channel 3 reporter is convinced you’re part of the old Rajneeshee
commune because of your middle name,” Darrow told Hester two hours later in an
interrogation room at Portland Police Bureau headquarters.
    “Oh my sainted
aunt!” said Hester, slapping her chest with a half-stifled snort. “Well,
actually, she was my sainted aunt, old Freelove Princetta McGarrigle, of
Nova Scotia, from whom my parents got my adorable middle name. As I’ve told
anyone who has ever asked, it’s one of the old-fashioned virtue names, like
Faith, Hope and Charity.”
    “Yes, I remember,”
Darrow said, “and your first name comes from the writings of Nathaniel
Hawthorne, for whom I was named.” Their eyes locked for a long moment.
    “You two gonna sing
a duet or something?” Pim asked, looking worriedly back and forth at them.
    The moment’s
spell broken, Darrow handed Hester some coffee in a cracked red mug that he’d
brought in from the staff room, and handed a cracked blue mug to Pim, who sat
silently glowering at him from the other end of the table. The smell of
steaming Maxwell House competed with the room’s permanent aroma of old socks. “And
forgive me for not correcting Misty Day at the time, but my experience is that
you can always tell a TV reporter – ”
    “But you can’t
tell them much,” Hester finished the old saying for him with a groan and a
grin. “My father says that about Scotsmen, which is allowed since he is one.”
    “Yes, my dad
used to say it about Swedes, since we had a few in the family,” Darrow said,
leaning back in an orange plastic chair that reminded him of his high-school
cafeteria, and putting his feet up on the table as he used to do in his
high-school cafeteria.
     The table was
old, wooden and covered with scribbled graffiti. “Jim Bob + Mr. T, 1989,”
scrawled in black Sharpie, caught Hester’s eye.
     “So, as
enchanting as I find your workplace, Mr. Darrow, how soon can Pim and I be on
our way?” she asked.
    “Yes, I’d like
to know that, too, Inspector, whenever you’re done with your screen test for ‘Fast
Times at Ridgemont High,’ ” added Pim, reverting to her favorite sarcastic name
for the policeman who had helped mistakenly send her to jail a few months
earlier as a suspect in Sara Duffy’s murder. She had never warmed to him.
    Darrow gazed
silently at