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  Dead Float

  A Cal Claxton Mystery

  Warren C. Easley

  www.WarrenEasley.com

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2014 by Warren C. Easley

  First E-book Edition 2014

  ISBN: 9781464202698 ebook

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.

  Poisoned Pen Press

  6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103

  Scottsdale, AZ 85251

  www.poisonedpenpress.com

  [email protected]

  Contents

  Dead Float

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Dedication

  In memory of my parents,

  Cliett and Virginia Easley

  and Buddy, the Aussie

  Acknowledgments

  Once again, deepest thanks to Marge Easley and Kate Easley for unerring advice and unwavering support, and to my incomparable critique group, LeeAnn McLennan, Janice Maxson, Debby Dodds, and Alison Jaekel. Many thanks to the talented crew at Poisoned Pen, and especially to Barbara Peters, whose sagacious edits helped shape the direction and tone of this novel. A special thanks to Sy Banaitis, who introduced me to the joys of fly fishing, and to owners Craig and Tina Hughson and the world class team at Rogue River Outfitters, especially guides Bob Bryant, Guy Billings, and Tim Conway, for countless hours of magnificent fishing on the Deschutes River. Long live Onchryncus Mykiss Iridis!

  Chapter One

  If I’ve learned one thing in this life, it’s that trouble has a way of finding you, no matter where you go or what you do to avoid it. I moved up here from Los Angeles to get away from the big city and all that came with it. A one-man law practice in a small rural town—that was my plan. Start fresh, mind my own business, keep my head down. Oh, and my daughter, Claire, told me to get a dog and find a hobby. Well, I’ve done all that, but I can’t say I’ve gotten the results I expected.

  A case in point—the series of events that began early one morning last June.

  I remember that morning distinctly because of the weird dream that woke me just before dawn. I was walking on a deserted beach. A gust of wind parted the fog hanging over the water just long enough for me to see Claire standing out in the surf on jagged rocks. As a huge wave gathered silently behind her, the mist closed again like a curtain. I ran up and down the beach waving my arms and shouting warnings. She reappeared. The wave was now nearly upon her. I cupped my hands around my mouth and screamed, but the wind blew the sound back into my lungs.

  I awoke with the cry still rattling in my throat. I sobbed and my pulse hammered. Archie, my Australian shepherd, had left his corner of the bedroom to offer support. He stood with his head cocked to one side, his stump of a tail wagging tentatively. It had been a while since I’d had a dream like that. I used to dream about my wife, Nancy. But that’s another story. This dream was about Claire, my daughter, my only child. She had taken a year off from her graduate studies at Berkeley to help dig wells in remote villages in the Darfur region of the Sudan. She was supposed to call me by satellite phone at least once a week. That was the deal.

  She was now three days overdue.

  Claire’s presence in one of the most dangerous places on the planet had started innocently enough. She heard this guy speak at Berkeley—some high tech billionaire-turned-humanitarian—who’d founded a non-profit called Well Spring. Their mission was to help the poorest region on the planet. They would use simple, low-cost technology. They would not only dig wells, they would teach the Sudanese to dig their own. In so doing, they would transform a region where access to water is everything.

  I’d seen enough of life to know that do-gooder schemes often have a way of going awry. But I wasn’t about to let my cynicism get in her way, so I gave her my blessing. I knew deep down that what I thought wasn’t going to influence her anyway. Claire was going to do what her conscience dictated. After all, that’s how her mother and I had raised her. And, in truth, I was proud of what she was doing. So, apart from my usual separation anxiety, I wasn’t particularly worried about her, at least not until she was late calling in. I sat on the edge of the bed, stroking Archie’s head. I’ll give it another day before I call Well Spring, I decided.

  Archie and I jumped when the phone rang. I glanced at the clock as I picked up the receiver. It was a little before five.

  “Cal?” a familiar voice said cheerily. “How are you, buddy?”

  “Is that you, Lone Deer?” There was more edge to my voice than intended. I’m really not at my best before the sun rises.

  “Yeah, it’s me. You okay? You sound like I woke you up or something.”

  “Ah, actually you didn’t wake me up, but you meant to. I was just hoping you were Claire is all.” I instantly regretted having said that, because I didn’t feel like discussing the situation, even with my good friend, Philip Lone Deer.

  “Expecting her to call, huh? She doing okay over there?”

  “Fine,” I replied. “She’s doing fine.” I was relieved that Philip was apparently unaware of the ongoing situation in Darfur. At best it was being called a civil war, at worst genocide. This was a busy time of year for him, so I suspected reading the newspapers was not a high priori
ty. “So, what’s so important you have to call me before the damn birds are up?

  Lone Deer chuckled. “Cal, you know I’m an early riser, man. I’ve been up since four. I need you on the Deschutes tomorrow, not Thursday. My clients moved their date up a day. Can you make it?”

  “Hang on a sec. Let me check my calendar.”

  I slipped into my moccasins and padded down to the study on the first floor. Archie followed me with breakfast on his mind. The stillness of the morning was broken by the creaks and groans of the stairs and the sound of his nails on the worn treads.

  Philip Lone Deer was a professional fishing guide. I had met him on a float trip Claire had given me as a birthday present. I was a fledgling fly fisherman and Philip a patient teacher. We hit it off, and soon, when our schedules allowed, we were fishing together as friends rather than as guide and client.

  Last year one of Philip’s guides hurt his back right at the beginning of the salmon fly hatch on the Deschutes River, as wild and unspoiled a river as there is in Oregon, and North America, for that matter. It was his busiest time on the river, so out of desperation, he asked me to fill in the three days it would take for him to get a replacement. I had such a great time that I offered to guide for Philip every year at this time, and since he was always short of personnel, he readily accepted. Tomorrow would be the first day of this commitment. For the next two weeks I was to shed my identity as small-town lawyer, and become Cal Claxton, fly-fishing guide.

  I sat down at my desk, opened my calendar, and picked up the phone. “Yeah. Looks doable. My morning’s full, but I can duck out this afternoon in time to be in Madras for dinner.”

  “Great, Cal.” Then we’re good to go. Look, Blake and I won’t get in to Madras until late, so just meet us at the Trout Creek put-in at seven in the morning.”

  I was wide awake now and craving a cup of coffee. I went into the kitchen, fed Archie, and drew a double espresso shot using my stainless steel DeLonhi—one of my prized possessions—to which I added hot, frothy milk. The birds had begun to sing, and the Doug firs to the east formed sharply etched silhouettes against a deep orange sky.

  My old farmhouse is perched like a lone sentinel on a high ridge in the Dundee Hills at the northern edge of Oregon’s Willamette Valley. The view out the back of my place looks south, straight down the gun barrel of the valley, bounded by the Coastal Range to the west and the Cascades to the east. Pinot noir grapes thrive in the ferrous-rich soils up here, so the view below me is mainly undulating vineyards, although I can see fields of hazelnuts, hops, and even Christmas trees. Further out, the valley floor becomes a soft patchwork of cultivated fields narrowing to the horizon, a study in greens, yellows, and ocher.

  Dundee, the nearest town, sits at the base of the hills a few miles away. Dubbed by some, mainly locals, the unofficial wine capitol of Oregon, the little town of eight thousand is experiencing growing pains brought on by the expansion of the wine industry and the split that inevitably develops between those who welcome growth and those who don’t. As an L.A. native I know only too well what unbridled growth can do. But I felt safe in my refuge and figured it’d take a long time for the developers to find me.

  After another jolt of espresso, I started packing so I could leave for the Deschutes directly from my office in Dundee. I loaded my traveling fly case with an assortment of caddis flies and bead-head nymphs and left room for the salmon flies that Philip had promised. He tied his own, and they were the best on the river. I screwed a fresh CO2 cartridge into my fishing vest. The small bottle held enough pressurized gas to inflate the vest in case of an emergency. Activated by a ripcord, it would float me in case I came loose in the rapids.

  As I loaded the car, I had this nagging feeling I’d forgotten something. I turned to Archie and said, “Okay, big boy, what is it?” His ears came forward and he whined softly a couple of times. Then it came to me. I’d lost the belt to my waders on my last trip. This wasn’t just a matter of looking good on the river. I’d heard too many stories of good fishermen who’d drowned when their waders filled with water and dragged them under because they weren’t wearing a tightly cinched belt. I went back in the house, grabbed a thick leather belt, and tossed it on top of my waders.

  His chin resting on his paws, Archie lay on the porch watching me intently for clues—was he going with me or would he have to stay? When I packed his feeding dish, watering bowl, and a bag of kibble, he sprang up, wagging his tail. “Don’t get your hopes up, Arch” I told him, “I can’t take you with me.” I would have left him at home, to be cared for by our neighbor, Gertrude Johnson, but Gertie was under the weather, so plan B was to drop him at the local vet.

  When I finished loading the car I opened the back door and gave a slight nod. Arch vaulted into the seat in an instant, sitting erect with a doggie grin on his face. That dog of mine never listens to me.

  As we rolled down my long driveway, a mass of dark clouds blotted out the sun. My enthusiasm faded with the sunlight. The vivid dream I had that morning came back to me, and I thought of Claire again. But something else nagged, too. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I won’t say it was a premonition, because I don’t believe in premonitions. But it was something pretty damn close.

  Chapter Two

  Eagle Nest Road connected my driveway with the main road. Some early settler just off the Oregon Trail probably named it, and aptly so, since bald and golden eagles hunt the area, although you’re more likely to see a red-tailed hawk or a kestrel. At the intersection with the main road, I hopped out to grab the paper before heading down to Dundee.

  Pritchard’s Animal Care Center was located on the south end of Dundee in a small, white clapboard building that had once been a Baptist church. The cross on the belfry had been replaced with a large weathervane sporting the silhouette of a hunting dog, and a couple of the pews now served as customer seating inside the building. When we pulled into the parking lot, Archie let out two high-pitched squeals of joy. I clipped on his leash, and he led me into the building, his entire backside wagging. It was unusual, to say the least, for a dog to be so enthusiastic about visiting the vet. This was particularly true for Arch, who’d nearly died there. He’d been roughed up by a cougar and was limp in my arms when I rushed him into the center. Hiram Pritchard saved Archie’s life that night, an act that had endeared him to both the dog and his owner.

  Hiram was busy, so I handed the leash to the receptionist. Archie peered up at me, ears forward.

  “It’s okay, big guy, you stay with Doc.”

  He sat there a moment longer as if to say, Are you sure? Then he popped up and trotted with the receptionist down the hall like he owned the place.

  My law office stands on the other end of Dundee, which consists of an eclectic collection of storefronts strung out along Route 99W. Upscale restaurants, a trendy inn, and numerous wine-tasting rooms offering “big, bold reds” were tucked in with taco and BBQ trucks, a tavern promising karaoke, and all manner of small shops. Not a national chain to be seen, and hardly an unfriendly person. At the north end of town, where the old barber shop had stood, was the only lawyer’s office. A sign with letters carved in a slab of red cedar read “Calvin Claxton III, Attorney at Law.”

  My dad was called Junior his entire life. Like his dad, he practiced law in the San Gabriel Valley in Southern California. When I finished Law School at Berkeley, it was pretty much expected that I’d join his one-man practice. But I wasn’t much for predictability and surprised everyone in my family by opting for a job as an L.A. prosecutor. I wound up as a Deputy DA in major crimes, riding herd on a large group of lawyers. I was in my twenty-sixth year with the city when my wife died. After that, well, let’s just say I crashed and burned. Living up in my refuge in Dundee represented a fresh start.

  At my office that morning, I managed to push some papers around on my desk while resisting the temptation to call Well Spring to inquire about Cla
ire. I didn’t want to act the nervous parent, and besides, Claire had warned me she might have trouble connecting with me on a regular basis.

  In addition to my practice in Dundee I did some pro bono work in Portland. My clients were mostly homeless kids and adults who had been brought to their knees by the Great Recession, bad choices, hard luck, or some combination of all three. I’d postponed my meetings in Portland for the next two weeks and had finally talked my landlord, Hernando Mendoza, into fixing the leaks in the roof of his building in my absence. Nando was a good friend and a private investigator I used on occasion, but tight with a buck.

  In truth, I welcomed the break, because every trip to Portland was haunted by the woman who’d convinced me to volunteer there in the first place. A passionate advocate for homeless kids, Dr. Anna Eriksen had run the health clinic in Portland’s Old Town. We had grown close and even traveled to her native Norway together. But six months ago she left Portland to start a much larger clinic in New York City, where she grew up. I guess I always knew she’d put her homeless kids ahead of me, and I really couldn’t fault her for it. But that didn’t lessen the sting.

  The women in my life, it seems, have a have a way of slipping away from me.

  I closed up shop and left for Madras around three. It took John Coltrane’s “Favorite Things” and half of Thelonius Monk’s “Brilliant Corners” to reach I-22, which parallels the North Santiam River into the western side of the Cascades. Cresting Santiam Pass, I caught a glimpse of Mount Washington off to my left, its white volcanic cone etched against a cobalt sky. On the descent, the lush fir and cedar yielded to ponderosa and scrub pine and then to the chaparral and mesquite of the high desert.

  I arrived in Madras around six. It was hot enough to convince an oil executive of global warming. The clerk at the motel managed to check me in without dropping the ash column from her dangling cigarette as I maneuvered to avoid her second-hand smoke.

  I turned the air conditioner in my room on full-blast, changed into my swim trunks, and made for the pool. I swam forty laps in the tepid water and returned to my room, which was now cold enough to hang meat. The bed looked tempting, so I stretched out to relax for a few minutes. The air conditioner had a cyclic drone that became a mantra as I spiraled into sleep.