“That’s right,” Harve said. “One of them freak accidents. Bad enough, but it could’ve been worse.”
“You mean the woman’s husband might’ve been home, too.”
“That’s one thing. Ned Verriker was real lucky. Explosion almost caused a forest fire, that’s another. VFD just got it contained in time.”
“Must’ve been some blaze. You in the neighborhood when it happened?”
“Not me,” Harve said. He sounded disappointed. “Working on a road crew the other end of the valley.”
“The man… what’s his name, Verriker?… must be taking it pretty hard.”
“Wouldn’t you if it was your house, your wife?”
“Hell, yes. Never be the same again.”
“Ned probably won’t, neither.”
Runyon took a sip of his beer before he said, “Pretty well liked in the community, Verriker and his wife, weren’t they?”
“Guess you could say that.”
“Not friends of yours?”
“No. Never met her, but I know him a little from where he works. He don’t come in here much. The Buckhorn’s his hangout. Keeps everybody in stitches over there, they tell me.”
“Is that right?”
“One of them guys with a wicked sense of humor. Well, the poor bastard’s not laughing now, that’s for sure.”
“Wicked?”
“Always making jokes about other people. You know, if they don’t hurt, they ain’t funny.”
The bartender, Mel, had come down to this end and was standing within earshot. He said a little sourly, “Like that mayor business.”
“Yeah, like that.”
“Pete sure didn’t think it was funny, and I don’t blame him.”
“Guess I don’t, either. But you got to admit, Verriker nailed him pretty good.”
“Better not tell Pete that.”
“Not me. He throws a fit every time anybody even looks at him cross-eyed these days.”
Runyon said, “Mayor business? What’s that about?”
“The Mayor of Asshole Valley,” Harve said. “Guy hung that name on me, I’d be pissed, too.”
“How’d it come about?”
“Him and Pete never got along, that’s how. Almost come to blows a couple of times, didn’t they, Mel?”
“So I heard,” the bartender said.
“How long ago’d it happen, the name-calling?”
Harve said, “Few weeks. At the Buckhorn one night.”
“Wouldn’t’ve happened in here,” Mel said, “not on my shift.”
“Dunno how it got started, different versions floating around. Something about too many assholes in the world these days. Verriker said what they ought to do was round ’em all up and put ’em in a valley somewhere, armed guards all around to keep ’em there. Pete didn’t like that and said so, and Verriker said that was because he was the biggest asshole in this valley, and if he was put in with the rest, they’d probably elect him mayor. The Mayor of Asshole Valley.”
“And the name stuck?”
“Oh, it stuck all right. Or at least Pete thinks so.”
Runyon asked, “Who is Pete anyway?”
“Good customer,” the bartender said. “You wouldn’t know him.”
“Curious, that’s all. He’s not here tonight, I take it?”
“He was, we wouldn’t be talking about him like this. Talked about him enough as it is.” He glanced meaningfully at the fat man before he moved away.
“Yeah, Mel’s right,” Harve said. “Oughtn’t to be spreading local stuff around to out-of-towners.” He picked up the dice box, rattled it a couple of times. “Shake for another beer?”
Runyon declined; said his wife was a fit-thrower, too, and if he didn’t get back to her, she was liable to throw one tonight. He’d gotten all he was going to get out of Harve and the bartender. Time to move on.
The Buckhorn Tavern was on a side street at the north end of town. From the name, you expected walls decorated with deer antlers, animal heads, hunting paraphernalia, and that was what you got. Macho place. The two dozen or so patrons were mostly male and from the look of them, regulars. Every eye fixed on Runyon when he walked in, watched him ease onto a bar stool and spend four dollars on another light beer.
The glances weren’t unfriendly, just openly curious. But he couldn’t get anybody to talk to him. Tried three times, with two men and a woman, and either got the cold shoulder or a quick brush-off. He took his beer over near an antiquated shuffleboard game for a better look at the rest of the patrons. He’d been there less than thirty seconds when one of them slid out of a booth and came sidling over to him.
The man was about forty, rangy and hollow-cheeked, dressed in Levi’s and a sport shirt. He nodded and offered a “How’s it going?” greeting. Then, “Aren’t you one of the guys been asking about the woman went missing a few days ago?”
“That’s right. Runyon’s my name.”
“Ernie Stivic.”
“Sorry, but I don’t remember talking to you.”
“You didn’t. Saw you with Frank Ramsey this afternoon.”
“The mailman?”
“Yep. He’s a friend of mine, he told me about it after you left. Any luck finding the woman?”
“Not so far.”
“Frank said her husband’s pretty shook up. I would be, too, if I was married.” Stivic took a swig from the bottle of Bud he was holding. “You and him really private detectives down in ’Frisco?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t do much in a thing like this, can you? Woman wanders off into the woods and you don’t know the area?”
“Is that what you think happened? She just wandered off and got lost?”
“What else? Happens all the time up here. Well, not all the time, but often enough in the summer.”
“You wouldn’t happen to’ve been in the vicinity of Skyview Drive on Monday afternoon, would you, Mr. Stivic?”
“Not me. I was at work.”
“Know anybody who might’ve been?”
Stivic shook his head. “Sorry. Mind if I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“How come you’re here? In the Buckhorn, I mean. You looking for somebody or just taking a break?”
It was curiosity, nothing more, that had brought Stivic over. But he was friendly and talkative enough, the type open to being probed. You wouldn’t be able to get much from a man like this about one of his friends, but you could pry out some information if the subject was somebody he didn’t like.
Runyon said, “I thought the mayor might be here. Is he?”
“Fred Donaldson? Why’d you think he’d be here? He don’t drink.”
“I meant the man they call the mayor. Pete something.”
“Oh, hell, him,” Stivic said, and his mouth bent into a lopsided grin. “The mayor. Yeah, and it fits him like a glove, too. You know why we call him that?”
“I’ve been told. Is he here?”
“Not tonight. How come you’re looking for him?”
“Just trying to cover all the bases. What’s his last name?”
“Balfour. Pete Balfour.”
“What’s he do for a living?”
“Construction. Balfour Construction.”
“Big outfit?”
