Northwest Blues

The Curlew Lake Murder/Chapter One

An early morning rains had blanketed the lake and surrounding mountains with much needed relief from the heat and bone dryness of late August. Thick gray clouds began to break-up by afternoon. The wind blew in forceful gusts from the North West, pine trees sway as if slow dancing to the music of an unseen band. By nightfall the stars were shining with a brilliance few city folk have the privilege to experience.

Driving fast on the winding road over Sherman Pass and turning at Pine Grove Junction, Carl Edwards was oblivious to any beauty Ferry County had to offer. As a city man born and raised, his thoughts tended to focus on only one thing. Money! How he made money, when and on what to spend money, and where to get more, even if he had to steal it. To Carl, money was a game. He never lost because he never played by the rules. His business dealings were always kept strictly confidential.

The new light blue Fox Audi glistened in the moonlight. He punched the gas peddle hugging the inside curve of a sharp s-turn, pushing the car down a short straight-a-way at seventy miles an hour. The car responded smoothly as he did the same thing on the next turn, barking the tires leaving the outside turn. His smile vanished at the sight of several Mule deer caught in the headlights. Swerving into the other lane in order to miss them, tires squealing, he fought to control the Audi by not touching the breaks. His screaming vulgarism went unheard.

“Not tonight, you son’s of bitches. Nothing tonight is going to spoil my celebrating.”

With a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels remaining in a vice grip between his inner thighs, he reaches for the cigarette lighter, fumbles with a pre-rolled fat joint. A pink plastic bag of newly purchased porn CD’s had scattered across the passenger seat and lay helter skelter on the Audi’s dark blue carpeting.

Three startled bucks with trophy racks, leap down the highway embankment and trot into a clearing. They stop for a moment to watch the fast moving car, weaving tail lights disappear around a tree lined curve.

“Almost Home.” He sighs, slowly releasing the long held drag. Driving back from Seattle via Spokane and Colville, most of his weekend had been spent with lawyers signing multiple copies of court papers. The rest of his time spent on phone calls to business associates, dinner, and the night with a high price hooker. He wasn't looking forward to being alone in his almost completed three thousand square foot lakeview log home. A Montana contractor was working on exterior finishing touches, while Salon24, a British Colombia company worked to finish their designer furniture placements. The way he saw it was like this: he would call his real state contract lawyer first thing in the morning, call Highpoint N.C. about the custom-made leather sofa chairs that were late in shipping, and maybe get a few hundred dollars shaved off for his aggregation. Both companies were behind seclude. He took another short puff, held it, exhaled while fingering the window buttons on the arm rest, and flicked the three quarter joint into the night sky.

“Something for the locals.” he sneered and turned onto the newly graveled driveway.

The log cabin with a massive rap-around porch looked like a lodge brochure from a fancy Vale Colorado ski lodge. True, the view of the lake from his hill top perch was worth much more than the rock-bottom price he had paid for the property. What he had spent building his summer retreat, “The McMansion”, the locals called it, was between him and his account. At eleven o’clock on a Sunday night several smaller homes around the lake were dimly lit.

The peaceful stillness seemed spooky to Edwards. In the past several weeks he had stayed at the cabin, he still couldn't get used to the quiet. At night he played the cable entertainment channels to keep himself company. Music blared to the early hours of the morning.

His high-rise apartment in Seattle had already been leased to a Los Angels oil company’s hotshot executive. That deal was a little to smooth to suit his bird dog noise for trouble. Another conspiracy scheme to mull over, because something about the deal just didn't add up.

Driving into the three-car garage, he bumped the front bumper into a low stack of plywood lumber he hadn’t seen.

“Shit! Stupid contractors.” He slurred his words in an evil tone. “If there’s so much as a scratch on the bumper, I suuuu the fuckers.” Business deals, Atlanta, Boston, Baltimore, and San Francisco, were swimming in his alcohol-befuddled mind. Stepping out of the car in the darkness, the whisky bottle shatters on the concrete.

“I’ll makem’ pay for that too. Why in the hell didn’t the weekend crew leave a security light on? It’s piss black in here.” Unhappy at the thought of getting whisky on the souls of his new Italian loafers, Edwards slams the car door and walks around to the passenger side, opens the door and gathers up the scattered CD’s.

“This” is for that local weasel subcontractor Sandy Berky and his dysfunctional wife. He holds up a glossy jacket CD. Gag Factor #2, the title is easy to read in the Audi's dome light. "Give him an idea what I think about him, the money-grubbing son of a bitch. Thinks he can screw me? Hah!”

Thirty-seven-year-old Carl Edwards slams the Fox Audi’s passenger door at the same time a flash appears from the far corner of the garage. gggGun! He spins around seeing, one, two, three more flashes of light with a sharp clapping sound accompanying each flash. The stack of porn CD’s cascade to the concrete, making a louder noise than the silencer on the Victor High Standard 22 automatic. Edward’s knees stiffens as he jerks. Pissing, he’s dead before he drops to the cold garage floor.

A wide red flashlight beem sweeps back and forth, stopping at spent brass casings. One, two, three, and four, each 22 longrifle cartridges is picked up. The red beam is switched off. The smell of gunpowder, sagebrush, and pine trees, mingle with the smell of fresh blood and urine.

A lone shadow weaves through the sagebrush below Edward’s highpriced garish McMansion. Softshoed footsteps crunch on hard gravel, mingling with coyotes singing in the moonlight.