The door opened, revealing the stout, silver-haired figure Duncan remembered. But as his gaze met the old man's, he saw the reason for Neeson's retirement. His blue eyes were all but white. The cataracts were so bad he had to be nearly blind.
And the white cane he held confirmed it.
"Come in, come in," Neeson said, opening the door wider. "You want a drink to warm the ice from your bones?"
"Coffee would be good."
Neeson snorted softly as he slammed the door shut. "I can remember a time when you would have sneered at the mere mention of coffee."
"A few days in jail can alter a wolf's thinking," Duncan said wryly.
The old wolf tapped his way down the hall, but once he got to the kitchen, he put the cane down and moved with more assurance. Obviously, he spent most of his time here and didn't have many visitors — or at least many who used the front door.
"So," Neeson said, picking up the coffee pot and feeling for the mugs. "You didn't come here to talk about old times, as we haven't had many. What do you want?"
"I'm trying to hunt down this killer for my pack." He saw no reason to lie to the old man. Neeson might be blind and he might be retired, but he probably still knew more about what was going on in this town than anyone else. And his next words confirmed this.
"Thought you might be, considering you swore ten years ago never to set foot in this ... what did you call it? 'Blighted town?'"
Duncan smiled. "I don't believe I was that polite."
"I wouldn't have been, either. Darcy set up quite a campaign. Had more than half the town convinced you were the father of his daughter's kid."
"And the other half ready to come after me with shotguns." He kept his voice dry, though in truth, anger still lingered even now. "You think he'd be peeved enough at the outcome to plan a little revenge?"
"No. Darcy wouldn't have the brains to come up with something like this and pull it off. If he intended to come after any of the Sinclairs, he would have done it the old fashioned way. With a gun."
Duncan murmured a thanks as Neeson slid a chipped mug across the table, then said, "What about Nancy Grant?"
Neeson's rheumy gaze studied him for a moment. "You've obviously been digging."
He shrugged, even though he knew the old wolf couldn't see the movement. "I have to start somewhere."
"Nancy Grant isn't what I'd call a start."
"Why not?"
"Because she was sixteen when the Bitterroot fire happened, and she was fueled up on alcohol and drugs. She's been on the straight and narrow since."
"No rumblings whatsoever about the dance?"
"Nothing more than any of the golden tribe."
"What about Levon?"
"Doubtful. Besides, both he and Nancy are golden wolves. The killer is silver."
"The evidence points that way, but it could be planted."
"The rangers don't think so."
True. But then, the rangers were convinced it was someone in the Sinclair pack, despite having no real evidence to prove it. "I'm told Levon was recently asking about the dance and who was partnering who."
"Then the person who told you is a liar."
If Betise was lying, he'd have to find out why — and what she hoped to gain by doing so. "What makes you say that?"
"Because Levon knows the dance is essential. He might hate it — he might not want any of his immediate pack involved with it — but he's never said a word publicly against it, and he'd never try to stop it. Did an interview with him about five years ago. You should read it if you want to get a handle on the man. Very interesting."