Page 46 of The River We Remember

“You know I do.”

“Good.”

She leaned to him and kissed his cheek, then turned away and walked slowly across the grass toward the house. Brody watched her go, and he thought he understood now his father’s feeling about those butterflies long ago, that once their wings were pinned to cardboard they lost their spirit and ceased to be what had so captured your eye and heart and became something instead that you might study forever but never really know.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

GRAFF WAS WAITING for Brody in the jailhouse, drinking a cup of coffee from the pot he’d brewed on the hot plate. The hand-rolled cigarette he smoked was as much a part of who he was as the old Stetson he wore everywhere.

Brody closed the door behind him. “Afternoon, Connie.”

Hector trotted over for some generous petting from the deputy, then settled into his favorite corner.

“How’s everybody out at the Dern place?” Graff asked.

“Good,” Brody said. He poured himself a cup of Graff’s brew, sat, and, like Graff, put his feet up on the desk. The windows of the jailhouse were open to let in the breeze, and sunshine poured through, laying bars of gold across the scratched wooden floor.

“Quiet out there,” Graff said.

“Sunday.” Brody sipped his coffee, which was a little on the weak side, and because Sundays were typically Brody’s watch alone, he said, “So what’re you doing here, Connie?”

Graff said, “Been thinking.”

Brody said, “Jimmy Quinn?”

Graff blew smoke into the still air of the jailhouse, and it drifted slowly in the sunlight. He said, “I’ve been thinking about what could’ve taken him out to Inkpaduta Bend at night if he wasn’t really interested in fishing.”

Brody drank his coffee and waited.

“Everybody knows Jimmy Quinn was a man of excessive appetites. Land, power, money. I’m also guessing his libido might be added to that list.”

“Okay. So?”

“He’s got himself a wife who’s been sickly for quite a while, so probably no way of satisfying that particular appetite.” Graff took the cigarette from his lips and studied the ember. “In a situation like that, what does a man like Jimmy do?”

“He looks for satisfaction from someone else.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re thinking he was out on Inkpaduta Bend to meet a woman. Why would he bring that big Tolley to a romantic meeting?”

“Who said anything about romance? Maybe this was strictly a business proposition. Or maybe…” Graff paused.

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe some coercion was involved.”

“You mean rape?” Brody said.

“Or extortion or who knows what. One way or another, Jimmy Quinn usually got what Jimmy Quinn wanted.”

“Give me a name.”

Graff said, “Kyoko Bluestone.”

The jailhouse was dead silent. Brody watched the smoke circle and rise and circle some more above him while he considered the name Graff had given him.

Graff said, “She worked for the man, so was right under his nose. She’s a pretty little thing. And think about that sapphire ring we found in Jimmy’s pocket, made for a small finger. That woman’s hands are not much larger than a child’s.”