Chasing a Blond Moon(89)

“Pour yourself a glass,” she said.

Newf went into the living room and lay down, eyeing the woman. Service went into the kitchen. The wine was a 1994 Château Smith Haut Lafitte, a passable Bordeaux, and not one from his collection. Was this a gift or a bribe? And what did she want? He poured himself a glass and sniffed it. Good nose.

Norah Jones was starting on “Lonestar.”

“Sweet tunes,” Honeypat said. “Norah lights my fire.”

He sampled the wine and sat down in a chair beside the couch. The wine was dry. “Thanks,” he said. “This is smooth.”

“You and your woman live good,” Honeypat said, looking around.

He did not reply. Honeypat Allerdyce was nearly the savage that her father-in-law lover was, and she had always done as she pleased, her sexual appetite legendary.

“I owe you,” she said. “That thing you told me last fall about Limpy and Daysi.” She had slapped Limpy after Service had told her about the old man’s moves on Daysi, and she’d stormed out of the family compound in southwestern Marquette County.

“I know youse didn’t do it for me,” Honeypat said. “I don’t mind. I never went back.”

“I saw Limpy,” he said. Had it been yesterday? Time was jumbled.

“He tell you Aldo’s queer?”

Service nodded.

“Aldo wants to be a game warden and Limpy’s gonna do anything he can to shoot him down. I thought you ought to know, seeing I owe youse.”

“Thanks,” he said, lifting his glass.

“Wine okay?”

“Good,” he said, even better than very good. “Limpy said you’ve got your own place now. Ford River.”

“He was trolling to see what youse knew. He don’t know where I am and I aim to keep it that way. He finds me, I’ll be in for it. Does Aldo have a chance with youse people?”

Service nodded. “He spoke to our captain and the cap’n told him he doesn’t care what his grandfather does. Aldo is responsible for himself.”

“That’s good,” she said, taking another drink. “Make you nervous, findin’ the lights on?”

It had. It was difficult not to stare at the woman. Dressed like this she looked almost elegant.

“Like my new look?” she asked.

“Do you?” he asked, turning the question back on her.

She smiled. “Nice clothes always get me going,” she said. “How come you never took some off me? That time years back before Limpy went off to Jackson and you were hunting him, I’d’ve given it up.”

“I was working,” he said.

“I’ve got a job now,” she said. “HPC, right here in Gladstone.”

HPC was Hoegh Pet Casket Company, the largest maker of pet caskets in the country, maybe in the world. “They asked me to be a tour guide, but I didn’t think that was too smart. I’m working as a bookkeeper on the night shift. It’s boring, but it pays the bills.”

It was surreal to hear her talking like a normal person.

“I’ve got a new name, too. Grace Thundergiver. Going back to my roots,” she said with a laugh. “My mother was Mohawk, my father part Crow.”

He’d never known this about her. “Does Limpy know you’re Native?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Did, he’d have skinned me way back. Surprised I can hold down a job? I kept Limpy’s books for years.”

This was an interesting tidbit worth filing away for future use.

“Not surprised,” he said. She was smart and tough, and dressed this way, more than presentable. “I’m surprised you’re telling me all this.”

“Wanted youse ta know,” she said. “In case. Do you know Outi Ranta?”

“Ranta Lumber.” Her husband, Onte, had died last spring.

“Outi and I go way back. I moved in with her after I left Limpy and before Onte got sick. We’ve been friends a long time. I was with her when Onte passed. I live in her guesthouse.”

Rantas lived on The Bluff, less than a half-mile west, which explained why there had been no vehicle in the driveway. Onte had gotten sick in late winter, and died by the end of spring. Had Honeypat been there all that time?

“I come ta see youse once before,” Honeypat said. “Your woman was ridin’ your mule on the back steps.”

Service remembered the night. He had begged Nantz to go inside, but she didn’t want to.

“Got me going,” Honeypat said. “Still does when I think about it. Tink your woman would go for a threesome?”

“Not a chance,” he said. This was more like the Honeypat he knew.

“Too bad, eh. Would suit me.”