A Deadly Draught Read Online Free Page B

brewers dying violent deaths in the short span of five years is too much coincidence for me, so I went back to the file on your father’s suicide, and something struck me as strange. Most of the officers working on the case then didn’t notice it, but I did, because you were his daughter and close to him. You knew his habits, and you knew the house. And what was in it.” He turned the vehicle onto the highway that led over Jefferson Mountain.
    “’He didn’t own a gun,’ you said. Now, Mr. Ramford, he said your father did own a pistol. The two of them used it for target practice. Some of the men working for Ramford told the officers they had seen your father and him shooting at a target set up on Ramford’s property. They were using a pistol. But I think you were right. You would know if your father owned a gun. I thought the pistol had to be Ramford’s. I checked the serial number on the weapon found in your father’s hand and called gun shops in this area.”
    Halfway up the long grade, Jake pulled into a driveway leading to a ranch-style house that had been converted to a business. Mossie’s Guns, the sign read.
    “The guy who runs it now is the son of the man who was operating it back when your father died. He didn’t remember selling the gun used in his death, but I asked him if he could find the sales receipt for it. He’s been digging around in his father’s old business papers and hit pay dirt last night. I got the call this morning.”
    “I don’t understand. Mr. Ramford wasn’t shot. He was hit over the head with something, right?”
    Jake let me open my own door and catch up to him as he walked up the steps to the shop.
    “Like I said, this isn’t about Ramford’s murder. It’s about your father’s.”

Four
    A fully stuffed black bear standing on its rear legs greeted our entry into the shop. It towered over me, its mouth open, teeth displayed with a ferocity I found frightening despite its departure long ago from the living. I reached out and touched the claws on its paw and thought of the power in them, now stayed for the purposes of decoration. I gave a short snort of disgust, which the owner caught. He hurled it back at me by spitting his chaw of tobacco into a spittoon located at the end of the counter. The place had atmosphere, I had to give it that.
    I’d never been in a gun shop before, but it was pretty much what I expected. Lots of weapons—guns, pistols, revolvers, shotguns, and rifles displayed in locked cases. On the wall behind the counter, mounted animal heads joined the bear at the door in a state of infinite captivity. A beaver losing some of its pelt stood on the counter. I didn’t like the place. It gave me the creeps, and that feeling emboldened me to speak before Jake had a chance.
    “Where are the people?” I asked and nodded toward the wall.
    The owner, who I assumed was the son of the Mr. Mossie after which the business was named, looked from Jake to me. He wore a red plaid shirt, trying, I thought, for the look of a sportsman, but his tiny black eyes set close together yelled predator to me. I wasn’t crazy about either his dress or his love of tobacco.
    “What?” He looked puzzled for a moment. Then he realized I was referring to the mounted kills. “Sportsman don’t shoot people. We’re very well trained in hunting safety.”
    “Right,” I said, but I thought back to all those falls when hunters had better luck taking down their buddies than they did an eight-point buck. Jake turned his head and looked at me. His eyes said he had second thoughts about bringing me along on this run.
    Jake introduced himself to the owner, whose name was indeed Mossie. The two men shook hands. The owner nodded at me. I pretended to take up a conversation with the bear. The owner cleared his throat and addressed Jake. “Dad kept good records, just didn’t have a filing system that made much sense. Took me a lot of time, but business is slow this time of year. I found it.