The Monuments Men Murders (The Art of Murder 4)

“I know why you’re here, of course. Quilletta has started selling Roy’s pictures, hasn’t she?”

Jason opened his mouth to answer, but Doc turned on the blender.

When the blender stopped, Doc said, “Don’t believe a word she says. That little gal lies like a rug. But you know, there’s not a mean bone in her body. And the things she’s had to contend with. Imagine: two husbands running off on her. The first bastard leaving her with a baby girl and a mountain of debt.”

Once again, Jason tried to speak, and once again Doc turned on the blender.

When the whirring stopped, Doc said, “Bert’s a different story. He’s a born and bred asshole.”

“I didn’t realize that took a lot of breeding.”

“More than you might think, Agent West. Homophobia is alive and well in the wild, wild West. I’ll give him credit, he’s been a good father to Patty and a good husband to Cindy. He wasn’t much of a nephew, though.”

Another burst of whirring ice.

Jason tried to hang on to his patience. That Spanish saying about the rich and the mighty? The elderly did not like to be rushed either.

The blender stopped, and Doc poured the frosty pale-green contents into two margarita glasses the size of small parachutes. He brought one to Jason, who took it with a sigh.

“Geronimo,” Doc said, holding out his glass.

Jason clinked rims and put his glass down.

“Hey, that’s bad luck,” Doc protested.

“Sir—”

“Call me Doc. Everyone does.” Doc slurped his margarita, licked his lips. “You don’t know what you’re missing, Agent West.”

“Doc, what can you tell me about Roy Thompson?”

“What did you want to know?”

“Anything would be helpful at this point. He’s a little bit of an enigma. What was he like? What kind of man was he?”

“I guess he was an ordinary guy. He had his strengths, and he had his weaknesses. Like the rest of us. He was loyal to his friends. He was generous to a fault. He was proud and didn’t forgive insults easily. And he was easily insulted. He was a good son and a good brother and a good uncle. He wasn’t a churchgoer. He wasn’t a hypocrite.” Doc shrugged like there was nothing else to say.

“When did you meet?”

Doc shook his head, picked up Jason’s untouched glass, and quaffed the margarita in two gulps.

“Roy and I met at Gallatin County High School. In Mrs. Kaynor’s tenth grade art class. And we stayed friends till the day Roy died. I guess we’re still friends.”

“Were you ever more than friends?”

“There’s nothing more than friends, Agent West. Friends are the most important relationships we have. They’re the family we pick.”

“Sure,” Jason said. “Were you ever romantically involved with Roy?”

Doc considered. “I don’t know if it was ever what I’d call romance. After the war, we used to keep each other company sometimes.”

“You were with the 101st where during the war?”

Doc said drolly, “Well, there was this little place called Normandy. You may have heard of it.”

Jason nodded, conceding a point. “Sure. And thank you for your service, sir. Were you ever in Bavaria?”

Doc laughed heartily at the idea, but Jason was pretty sure the Screaming Eagles had been in Bavaria. Maybe not in May 1945, but at some point. He’d spent a lot of time listening to his grandfather talk about the war.