White Mountain. Dinah McCall

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СКАЧАТЬ Mike Butoli was nursing a hangover and a broken toe when he came in to work. The coffee he’d purchased from the coffee shop on the corner was too weak for the condition he was in. He needed some of his father’s recipe this morning, with a healthy shot of the “hair of the dog,” and then he just might be able to make it through the day. However, his father had been dead for years, and thanks to a weak moment last night, he was going to have to start all over on a new sobriety day.

      He’d made it almost six months this time and was pissed at himself for giving in to temptation. When he drank, he had blackouts, so he had no idea which had come first, the broken toe or the first drink, and from the way he was feeling, it didn’t really matter. His goddamn foot hurt almost as much as his head.

      “Hey, Butoli. You look like hell.”

      Butoli glared at Larry Marshall and thought about tossing the sorry-assed coffee on the prick’s clean white shirt, then decided against it. He had yet to figure out how the man had ever made detective.

      “You should know,” he muttered, as he set his coffee down on the desk and started to remove his suit coat.

      “Don’t get too comfy,” Marshall said. “Flanagan is looking for you.”

      Butoli pivoted without stopping and headed for the lieutenant’s office, limping with every step.

      “Hey, Lieutenant, you wanted to see me?”

      Barney Flanagan looked up, then frowned. Butoli was a damned good cop when he laid off the sauce, but something told him Butoli had suffered a “weak moment” last night.

      “Are you drunk?” Flanagan growled.

      “No, sir. Not now, sir.”

      “Then why in hell are you leaning against my door? Stand up straight, damn it.”

      “I broke my toe. This is as straight as I can stand.”

      Flanagan muttered beneath his breath as he laid a file on the opposite edge of his desk.

      “Sanitation found a stiff in the alley behind Ivana’s Bar and Grill. Go do your thing.”

      Butoli took the file without comment and started out the door.

      “Butoli!”

      He stopped and turned. “Yes, sir?”

      “I don’t give a damn what you do on your own time, but you better not drink on mine or I’ll have your ass.”

      Butoli’s stomach rolled. God, but he needed something stronger than the coffee.

      “Lieutenant, right now, my ass is the only thing on my body that doesn’t hurt, and I’d really hate to part with it.”

      Flanagan smirked. “Life’s a bitch. Go find me a killer, and take Marshall with you.”

      “But Evans is my partner.”

      “Not since last night. His old man died. He’s gone to Tennessee. Won’t be back for at least a week.”

      Butoli groaned. “Damn it, Lieutenant, not Marshall. He’s a prick.”

      “Yes, but he’s a sober one. Now go do your job, and play nice while you’re at it.”

      Butoli stifled a curse and limped back to his desk.

      “Hey, Marshall, we got a new stiff, so get your pocketbook, you’re coming with me.”

      Larry Marshall glared as he got up from his desk.

      “That’s sexual harassment,” Marshall muttered as he took his handgun from his desk and slipped it into a shoulder holster.

      “Are you gay?” Butoli asked.

      Marshall’s nostrils flared angrily. “No.”

      “Then it’s not sexual harassment, it’s only a joke. And while we’re at it, you’re driving.”

      Marshall smirked as they headed for the elevator.

      “Why? Too drunk to drive?”

      “Not yet,” Butoli said, and then pointed to the hole he’d cut in the end of his best pair of loafers. “I broke my toe last night.”

      “Shame it wasn’t your head,” Marshall muttered, as they exited the building toward the parking lot.

      “I heard that,” Butoli said.

      “Good. At least there’s nothing wrong with your ears,” Marshall said, as he got behind the wheel. “Where are we going?”

      “Alley behind Ivana’s Bar and Grill.”

      Larry Marshall floored the accelerator, taking small pleasure in the fact that Mike Butoli’s skin looked like it was turning green.

      White Mountain Cemetery, Braden, Montana—The Same Day

      A stiff wind lifted the hem of Margaret Watson’s dress, then tugged at the black wide-brimmed hat she’d been determined to wear. She grabbed at her skirttail with one hand and her hat with the other as she leaned toward her best friend, Harriet Tyler. Lowering her voice, she glanced toward the young woman in black sitting near the open grave.

      “Poor thing. With her father dead and all, she’s all alone now. No husband. No kids. Just that big old hotel outside of town.”

      Harriet stared at the woman in question as she whispered back.

      “She’s not exactly alone. Her uncles are still there.”

      Margaret sniffed. “They’re not really her uncles, you know.”

      Harriet shrugged. “Well, yes, I suppose, but I don’t hold with blood being the only tie to family. They were Sam Abbott’s friends and colleagues. They’ve lived at Abbott House for as long as I can remember. When Sam’s wife, Isabella, died, they all did their part in raising that little girl. If she wants to call them her uncles, then who are we to argue?”

      Margaret sniffed again, disapproval evident in her posture.

      “It just doesn’t seem right,” she muttered. “All those men. You would have thought at least one of them would have married again.”

      Harriet grinned. “You’re just peeved because Samuel Abbott didn’t return your affections.”

      This time Margaret’s disapproval was directed at Harriet.

      “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she muttered. “Now do be quiet. The preacher is about to say a prayer.”

      Isabella Abbott was numb. If it hadn’t been for the firm grip of her Uncle David’s arm around her shoulders, she might have thought she was dreaming. For the past fifteen minutes she’d been looking at a clump of dirt on the toe of the pastor’s shoe, trying to ignore the shiny bronze casket suspended over the open grave beside him.

      Her СКАЧАТЬ