“How about his son-in-law? I hear he’s one of your regulars.”
The bartender gestured at his clientele. “These folks are the regulars. If we’re open, they’re here. Dwayne, we’d get him in once a week, maybe, but he did his drinking at home. You see that feller there?”
Bird looked toward the corner and found that the couple sitting there were both staring at him. He lifted his chin, a nod of acknowledgment, and watched as they bent their heads back together, whispering.
“You might talk to him about Dwayne,” the bartender said. A hardness crept into his voice. “You might do me a favor and arrest him while you’re at it.”
“For what?” Bird asked.
The woman at the table pushed back, stood up, picked up her purse, and walked out. The bartender scowled at the back of her head. “Never mind.”
A moment later, the guy from the corner table stood up and strode toward Bird. He was rail thin, thirty-ish, with a prominent nose and shaggy dark hair.
“You’re that cop, right?”
“State police,” Bird said. “Ian Bird.”
The man hitched his too-large pants up over his bony hips and slid onto the bar stool to Bird’s left.
“I’m Jake,” he said, flashing his teeth. “Cutter. That’s my last name. That’s what people call me, mostly.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Cutter.”
“It’s usually just ‘Cutter.’ No ‘mister,’” Cutter said. He swiveled his head to glance behind him. A group of men at the table nearest the door appeared to be glaring at him.
“Okay,” said Bird. “Cutter. I hear you knew Dwayne Cleaves?”
“You’re looking for him, right?”
Bird cocked his head. “That’s right. Have you seen him?”
“No,” Cutter said quickly. “I mean, not since, you know. Not since you all have been looking. But I do see him, pretty regular. Usually in here.”
“You’re friends?”
Another nervous glance backward. “Sort of. More like acquaintances.” Cutter paused, and Bird waited. After a couple fidgety seconds, he added, “I’m from Dexter; it’s a little ways to the east.”
“So you didn’t know Dwayne growing up, then.”
“No,” he said. “I met him maybe four years ago? Five? Hard to say.”
Bird fought back the urge to sigh. “Okay. So you saw Dwayne regularly. When did you see him last?”
“Oh. Uh, I’m not sure.” Cutter bit his lip, looking confused, and Bird felt another surge of annoyance. As frustrating as it had been trying to squeeze information from the people of Copper Falls, their close-mouthedness had one upside, in that he hadn’t yet had to deal with this sort of rubbernecking from people who wanted to treat the murder like a spectator sport. Still, Cutter had approached him on his own. Maybe he knew something, but something he was nervous to share. Bird decided to try another tack.
“How about Lizzie? Were you friendly with her?”
Cutter’s lower lip slid out from between his teeth, his confused expression morphing into a smile.
“Nah,” he said. “This isn’t a bring-your-wife kind of place.”
Bird blinked and gestured at the door that Cutter’s dining partner had just walked out of. “Weren’t you just—”
“Marie?” Cutter guffawed. “No. Hell no. I like to keep my options open.”
“I see.” Bird chewed a french fry, turning information over in his head. Snippets of prior conversations. Deborah Cleaves, snapping: My son doesn’t do drugs. Earl Ouellette, describing how Lizzie had always kept to herself. But it was Jennifer Wellstood who loomed largest, particularly the way her eyes darted to the side when Bird asked if the couple’s marriage had been in trouble.
He leaned in conspiratorially. “How about Dwayne? Did he keep his options open? You know what I mean.”
It was a risk, but it paid off: the look on Cutter’s face was an answer in and of itself. The smile turned into a smirk.
“That’s one way to put it,” he said.
Bird made a show of glancing around the bar. “Anyone in particular?”
Cutter guffawed again. “What, guys? Dwayne wasn’t a fag, man. More like a hero. I’ll tell you what, the chick he had was way above local grade.”
The seed of an idea was taking root in Bird’s head. “Not from around here, then.”
“Nope,” said Cutter. He shrugged. “I guess there’s no harm in talking about it, it’s not like he has to worry about the wife finding out.” He snickered. “Ooooh. Bad joke. Sorry. Anyway, I don’t remember the lady’s name. Some rich bitch. She was staying out at the lake with her husband for, like, all of August. Except the husband was gone a lot. And left his hot wife at the house all alone.” He paused. The smirk returned. “A lot.”