“Connie . . .” John said, embarrassed.
“Thank you, I think,” Joe said. “Maybe I do need to get out more often.”
He handed them one of his cards. “If you think of anything else, please give me a call. My cell phone number is written on the back. I’ll pass any information you give me along to the sheriff for his investigation.”
“I don’t think that sheriff could find his ass with both hands,” John said.
Joe didn’t comment.
As he passed by the billy-goat man, Joe patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks.”
The man swiveled on his stool and leaned into Joe. He said, “If this is about that Nazi photo album Dick Kizer brought back, I seen it.”
“What?”
“I seen it.”
Joe froze. The man spoke in a low tone so that the Sheftics couldn’t overhear. As Joe leaned in, the stench of alcohol and fetid breath was almost overwhelming.
“I ain’t talking in here where certain people can hear me. Go outside and I’ll follow you.”
Joe agreed and went out the door. He lingered on the wooden sidewalk porch and leaned a hip into the hitching post rail. It was cold and he crossed his arms for warmth.
A moment later, the billy-goat man came out. He didn’t wear a coat and he swayed from side to side as he spoke.
“I knew Vern Dunnegan, too,” the man said. He was referring to the game warden who had preceded Joe in the district years before. “Vern used to look at things a different way than you. He was a good guy. You ran him off.”
“Actually, I didn’t,” Joe said. “He resigned on his own. But what is it you wanted to tell me? Who are you?”
“Quinton Thirster. I’ve been around here a long time.”
Joe had heard of him. He’d been a notorious deer and elk poacher who had spent time in prison. Thirster was infamous in the valley for cutting a Jeep in half with a chainsaw after a divorce settlement with his ex-wife.
“Dick invited me out there once and we ate scrambled eggs and calves’ brains on Nazi plates,” Thirster said. He wriggled his fingers around in the air as if tracing an oval.
“Little swastikas all around the rim of the plate. It was crazier than hell.”
“You’re not kidding, are you?” Joe said.
“I even looked through the album,” Thirster said. “I don’t remember much about it, except there was some photos of old Hitler himself. I can’t remember the name of the guy who owned it. Some Nazi big shot.”
“Julius Streicher?” Joe asked.
The man nodded. “Might have been it. Like I say, I can’t remember for sure. It was fifty years ago. Dick and me got into an argument over a cow and we never spoke again. Bert wouldn’t talk to me, either. But I saw what I saw.”
Joe thanked the man and gave him a card.
Thirster turned and pointed at the red metal door. He said, “Those two, they’re not all innocent. They wanted to take advantage of Bert. I could see it. When Bert told them about his treasure, suddenly John was his best friend on earth. Once a dealer, always a dealer, is what I say. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was them who called the collectors. Those two might have blabbed what Bert had and caused this whole thing to happen. No, they ain’t all innocent and good, if you ask me.”
He said it in a conspiratorial way, as if unspooling a great revelation. The man reached out and grasped Joe’s arm.
“Things aren’t always what they seem,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “Just like those Nazis. Just like Hitler. They weren’t all bad, you know.”
“Gotta go,” Joe said, jerking his arm loose.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Voilà!
Two hours before, when he returned from the Wet Fly Bar, Joe found Marybeth awake and seated at the kitchen table with the photo album open in front of her. He wasn’t surprised to see her still up. It was nearly midnight.
“The girls went to bed, but I can hear them talking,” she said. “The four of them are sleeping together in the first bedroom. I gave Liv and Kestrel the spare room for the night. I wanted to keep everyone here in one place. Liv agreed with that when I told her what was going on.”
“What are you up to?” he asked.
She gestured to the album. “I’m trying to figure out what it is in this book that these people want. Or why they want it. I can’t believe it’s the album itself. It can’t be that valuable except maybe to historians of the war. There has to be something specific in these photos—or somebody—the bad guys don’t want anyone to know about. Something personal.”