Bellingham Mysteries 3: Black Cat Ink Read Free Page A

catnip.
    Officer Patton stepped forward, probably to save her partner from divulging anything else. She said, “We have no new suspects at this time, but we encourage the public to come forward with any information they might have regarding this matter. You have a nice day now, Mr. Fontaine.”

Chapter Three
     
    After giving his statement to the police, Peter rode his bike the seven blocks to the Hamster’s offices in downtown Bellingham. He picked up keys to the Hamster’s white Toyota—the bed was already full of bundled papers—and checked the delivery route. It had been a few months since he’d delivered and even longer since he’d driven out into the county for any reason other than to go to the ski area.
    His mind roved as he jiggered the old truck into gear.
    Snuggled up against the largely undefended Canadian border and bounded on the west by the Strait of Juan de Fuca, Whatcom County is a place of extremes. Tie-dyed liberals from the university in Bellingham keep hope alive, facilitating the country’s longest-running peace vigil—forty years old and still going strong—while out in the county the Aryan Nations holds routine meetings, complete with target practice. The one thing these disparate elements can agree upon is that the mainstream media comprise nothing but propaganda, provocation, and lies.
    Enter the Hamster, a weekly paper that, while slanting to the left at least manages to deliver the truth.
    Someone’s idea of the truth, anyway.
    It always amazed Peter that anyone outside of rock-throwing distance of the university would be interested in Doug’s conspiracy-theory-laden editorials or his leftist views on watersheds and zoning laws.
    But the Hamster had a strong readership in the county. Right on the outskirts of the city of Lynden—a municipality so religious that it still outlawed dancing—were vineyards producing award-winning wines and dairy farms crafting artisanal cheese. Farther into the mountains, near Glacier, survivalist militia types shared solar-shower tips with off-the-grid environmentalist homesteaders. Rifle ranges stood within sight of alternative no-kill animal-rescue organizations.
    He drove from restaurant to coffee shop to corner store throughout greater western Whatcom county setting out bundles of free papers among the stacks of other free papers, the Thrifty Nickel , Whatcom Watch , and Whatcom Independent Tribune —the Hamster’s rival for local news—and real-estate brochures and a paper devoted entirely to buying and selling horses. More than one person asked him about Shawn’s whereabouts, some with looks of weedy desperation that gave Peter the distinct impression that Shawn had been using this route as a distro for his own sideline alternative pharmaceutical business. He wondered who exactly their delivery driver owed so much money to. Not any of these people, certainly. These were his regular customers, not his supplier.
    Five hours later, with a sore back and dirty hands, Peter found himself heading west again toward Bellingham. He pulled over at Nugent’s Corner to drop off a bundle of Hamsters and get a coffee. When he returned, a young woman was standing by the truck, tucking a note under the windshield wiper.
    Peter sidled up beside her. “Can I help you with something?”
    She jumped and smoothed her straightened and streaked blonde hair, and glanced past Peter toward a black truck that sat idling close by.
    Her ride, clearly.
    Flame decals decorated the side panels along the truck bed, but the tinted windows didn’t allow him to see the driver’s face. Neither of these features was uncommon in the county, but Peter took note of the truck because it contained a large black goat. Again, animals in the backs of pickups were not unusual in this neck of the woods, but they were normally dogs.
    How odd…
    The girl, who had recovered herself somewhat said, “I’m sorry, I thought this was my friend’s truck.” She went to retrieve the note, but