Welcome to the official website of Spur Award winner Keith McCafferty, author of Viking/Penguin’s Sean Stranahan mystery series, which includes The Royal Wulff Murders, The Gray Ghost Murders, Dead Man’s Fancy, Crazy Mountain Kiss, Buffalo Jump Blues, and Cold Hearted River. Here you will find information about these novels, as well as reviews, excerpts, contests to win flies and books, a sneak peek at the preface of the new novel and links to my articles. Contact me for free postcards and check out the The Deadwater Blog, which explores subjects ranging from the art of fly-tying to the art of writing about murder.
My next event is a talk and signing at Fact & Fiction on Friday, September 29th in Missoula, Montana as part of the Montana Book Festival. The time is 3 p.m.
Next, I will present a talk and slide show for the Gallatin Chapter of Trout Unlimited. That’s on Tuesday, October 11th at 7 p.m. at the Holiday Inn in Bozeman. Hope to see you there. I’ll bring cookies.
Check out the EVENTS PAGE for future engagements. If you would like to have me speak at a function you are involved in, such as a fishing club, book club, public library event, convention, bookstore reading, or environmental advocacy meeting, I would love to accommodate you. I’ll bring my own home-baked cookies!
Signed and personally dedicated books are available at the Country Bookshelf in Bozeman, Montana. Call (406) 587-0166 to order.
Pre-order your copy of COLD HEARTED RIVER today!
The sixth novel in the Sean Stranahan series will be available on bookshelves July 4. Check the links on the sidebar to order yours. Postcards and bookmarks for Cold Hearted River are free and being printed now! To receive a signed card, contact me at email@example.com and please include a street address.
“McCafferty writes about fly-fishing, Hemingway, and the American West with obvious affection and authority. Colorful characters and forbidding locales complement the book’s central puzzle, which has surprising real-life roots.”
“An exciting adventure set against some of the West’s most stunning landscapes. Cleverly interwoven with the true story of Hemingway’s lost trunk, it goes far to elucidate the mystique of fly-fishing.”
“When a book begins with a harrowing struggle for survival in the Montana mountains and uses as its MacGuffin a lost trunk of Ernest Hemingway’s fishing tackle (with the tantalizing possibility of lost manuscripts tucked inside), you know you’re not in for a run-of-the-mill mystery… McCafferty’s skill at creating memorable characters has even the walk-ons warming to the spotlight, and his background as the survival and outdoor skills editor of Field & Stream lends the outdoors scenes more authority than one finds in most western fiction. The fishing scenes will delight anyone who gets a chuckle out of Stranahan’s offhand ‘good fishing if not good catching’… The bittersweet ending hits all the right notes.”
—Keir Graff, Booklist
Based on a true story, the sixth novel in the acclaimed Sean Stranahan mystery series finds Montana’s favorite detective on the trail of Ernest Hemingway’s missing steamer trunk.
When a woman goes missing in a spring snowstorm and is found dead in a bear’s den, Sheriff Martha Ettinger reunites with her once-again lover Sean Stranahan to investigate. In a pannier of the dead woman’s horse, they find a wallet, the leather engraved with the initials EH. Only a few days before, Patrick Willoughby, the president of the Madison River Liars and Fly Tiers Club, had been approached by a man selling fishing gear that he claims once belonged to Ernest Hemingway. A coincidence? Sean doesn’t think so, and he soon finds himself on the trail of a stolen steamer trunk rumored to contain not only the famous writer’s valuable fly fishing gear, but priceless pages of unpublished work.
The investigation will take Sean through extraordinary chapters in Hemingway’s life. Inspired by a true story, Cold Hearted River is a thrilling adventure, moving from Montana to Michigan, where a woman grapples with the secrets in her heart, to a cabin in Wyoming below the Froze To Death Plateau, and finally to Havana, Cuba where an old man struggles to complete his life’s mission one true sentence at a time.
I first heard about Ernest Hemingway’s steamer trunk of fishing tackle, the lost treasure chest at the heart of this novel, from his oldest son, Jack. At the time, some thirty-odd years ago, Jack and I were contributing editors for Field & Stream, and friendly colleagues, if not close friends. It was a blustery November day, easy to recall because all November days on British Columbia’s Thompson River are blustery, and we were the only fishermen along a stretch of the river known as the Graveyard, just down the hill from the old white crosses where all the graves face north. On toward dark, Jack hooked a steelhead of fifteen or sixteen pounds, which I landed for him in the tailout after a long fight. We admired this great seafaring trout for a few seconds before releasing it, and celebrated with a thermos cup of hot chocolate into which I laced peppermint schnapps, in honor of my father.
After toasting the fish, I asked Jack if he thought his own father would have liked this kind of fishing—that is, wading on slippery boulders in a river haunted by the dead, casting hour after hour in miserable weather, and considering yourself lucky to hook up once every few days and manage not to drown. He said that Ernest would have enjoyed the challenge, but that he’d lost the heart to fly fish after a steamer trunk containing all his valuable gear was stolen or lost from Railway Express in 1940, en route to Ketchum, Idaho, where he was a guest at the Sun Valley Lodge. In fact, Jack could only remember his father fly fishing once after the loss, in the Big Wood River. This was an interesting insight into the famous author’s psyche, but at the time I was more interested in casting my own fly rod than the fate of another man’s tackle or the sentiments it evoked.
Years passed, and I had no reason to recall the story until my wife, Gail Schontzler, persuaded me to set a novel in northwestern Wyoming, where Hemingway stayed at the L-Bar-T Guest Ranch during five summers and falls in the 1930s, hunting, fishing, and writing. By then Jack had died and I sought to verify the details of his story with Patrick Hemingway, Ernest’s sole surviving son, who lives in my hometown. I spoke with him at a local screening of the PBS American Masters series film Ernest Hemingway: Rivers to the Sea. Patrick was kind enough to indulge my questions and said he recalled the lost trunk, adding that it probably contained best-quality bamboo fly rods and reels ordered from the House of Hardy catalog. Hardy was the premier London maker, and Patrick remembered helping his father convert the prices from pounds sterling to American dollars.
Today, only one piece of Ernest Hemingway’s fly fishing tackle survives in intact condition, a Hardy rod in a model called the Fairy that he had with him when he first went to Idaho. It is displayed at the American Museum of Fly Fishing in Manchester, Vermont, along with a letter to Field & Stream that Jack wrote about the missing tackle.
As concerns the possibility that the trunk contained Hemingway treasures unrelated to piscatorial pursuits, and perhaps of far greater value, there is one way to find out.
Pour a drink, light a fire, and turn the page. I have a story to tell.
Order a book, win a book (and one of Keith’s personally hand-tied flies)
For those of you who collect advanced reader copies, I should have two available for Cold Hearted River within the next few weeks. I will will send them to the first readers who contact me through the website. All I ask is that you keep buying my books and help pass the word, so I can continue receiving contracts and write more books. Also, I’ll tie a streamer fly, the pattern in the novels called Sam’s Skinny Minnow, for each of the first 5 readers who pre-order Cold Hearted River. Please email me through the Contacts link and make sure to include a street address for delivery.
CRAZY MOUNTAIN KISS is the winner of the Spur Award, a finalist for the High Plains Book Award, and a finalist for the Nero Award!
Crazy Mountain Kiss has just won the 2016 Spur Award for Best Western Contemporary Novel. The award is given out by Western Writers of America, a group founded in 1953 to honor and promote writing about the American West. The Spur is considered one of the most prestigious awards in American letters. Previous winners include Larry McMurtry and Tony Hillerman.
Additionally, Crazy Mountain Kiss is a finalist for the High Plains Book Award in Fiction, which promotes novels that examine life in the Rocky Mountain West, and is also a finalist for the Nero Award, which recognizes literary excellence in the mystery genre.
Order your copy of BUFFALO JUMP BLUES today!
The fifth novel in the Sean Stranahan series is available on bookshelves now. Check the links on the sidebar to order yours.
In the wake of Fourth of July fireworks in Montana’s Madison Valley, Hyalite County sheriff Martha Ettinger and Deputy Sheriff Harold Little Feather investigate a horrific scene at the Palisades cliffs, where a herd of bison have fallen to their deaths. Victims of blind panic caused by the pyrotechnics, or a ritualistic hunting practice dating back thousands of years? The person who would know is beyond asking, an Indian man found dead among the bison, his leg pierced by an arrow.
Farther up the valley, fly fisherman, painter, and sometime private detective Sean Stranahan has been hired by the beautiful Ida Evening Star, a Chippewa Cree woman who moonlights as a mermaid at the Trout Tails Bar & Grill, to find her old flame, John Running Boy. The cases seem unrelated—until Sean’s search leads him right to the brink of the buffalo jump. With unforgettable characters and written with his signature grace and wry humor, Buffalo Jump Blues weaves a gripping tale of murder, wildlife politics, and lost love.
“The fifth case for McCafferty’s fly-tying detective is as rich in history, local color, and unique characters as the first four. You can’t help hoping that the two leads will solve the problems of their relationship as readily as all those crimes.”
—Kirkus, starred review
“McCafferty’s wryly bantering characters are irresistible, his humor tangy, and his lyricism potent as he matches escalating action with intriguing disquisition. The latest in this ever-evolving, highly enjoyable series is a sharply ironic and suspenseful tale surreptitiously veined with profound insights into love, friendship, cultural collisions, and dire conflicts over wildlife and land, the sacred and the profitable.”
—Booklist, starred review
“Gorgeous writing about Montana’s wilderness, and battles among the forces competing to claim it: ranchers, Indians, developers, and in their midst, McCafferty’s first love, fly fishers standing waist high in the rushing waters, casting their lines.”
—Sara Paretsky, New York Times Bestselling author and Mystery Writers of America Grand Master
“Keith McCafferty understands that there is much more to a riveting mystery than what is commonly found in the typical whodunit. He also knows that a rousing good tale can often shine a light on important matters that deserve our attention. In BUFFALO JUMP BLUES, McCafferty does that and more as he takes us into the heart of Big Sky Country, a place he knows and loves, and treats us to a tightly crafted tale packed with quirky, captivating characters — mostly good, some just plain mean, and several who are simply murderous – and weaves an adventure that leaves you wanting more. He writes with heart and command of the story that sparkles on every page.”
—Michael McGarrity, crime writer, recipient of the New Mexico Governor’s Award for Excellence in the Arts, and Santa Fe Police Officer of the Year
Explosive, gripping and not-to-be-missed. Keith McCafferty gets the West just right with its cast of individualistic characters, stunning backdrops and a past that breaks through in violent and unexpected ways. Buffalo Jump Blues is an impressive crime novel, and McCafferty is an impressive writer.
—Margaret Coel, New York Times Bestselling author of The Man Who Fell from the Sky and Winter’s Child
Behold, my brothers, the spring has come . . . Every seed is awakened and so is all animal life. It is through this mysterious power that we too have our being and we therefore yield to our neighbors, even our animal neighbors, the same right as ourselves, to inhabit this land.
—Chief Sitting Bull, Hunkpapa Lakota Sioux
When the last buffalo falls on the plains I will hunt mice, for I am a hunter and I must have my freedom.
—Chief Joseph, Nez Perce
Chapter One: Kettle of Blood
“I suppose a gun would be too much to ask for.”
Harold Little Feather stared across the river. A small group of gawkers, two fishing guides and the couples who were their clients, gathered at his back. Moaning sounds emanating from the tree and willow tangle at the base of the cliffs were spaced farther apart now, just in the twenty minutes since he’d driven up from Ennis. He’d been sitting down to breakfast when he got the call. His day off, a date to meet Martha and cast a fly in the braids of the Madison, hence unarmed.
“I mean this being Montana and all, land of free men and open carry, I’d think somebody would be packin’.”
If Martha was here she’d have her Ruger, day off or not. Strapping up was part of her a.m. ritual, like turning Goldie out for a run while she steeped her tea, running a Chapstick across her lips and looking at her face critically in the mirror before squaring her hat. On nights when Harold slept over, he’d step up behind her, bring his big hands to her face, chestnut against white, lift the corners of her mouth so she saw herself smile.
“I got a two-two.”
Harold turned around. He’d heard the crunch of gravel a few minutes before as another truck pulled up. It was Peachy Morris hauling his Clack-a-Craft, the one with the pink ribbon on the hull to show his support for breast cancer research, though anyone who knew Peachy knew the only breast research he was interested in was the hands-on kind. The lanky fishing guide crinkled up his eyes, a “what do we have here?” look on his face. Harold’s glance took in Peachy’s clients, a tall, sandy-haired man he recognized as a member of the Madison River Liars and Fly Tiers Club, though he had forgotten the name, and a small girl who looked maybe seven.
“And what’s your name?” Harold asked the girl.
The girl hid her face behind a wing of straw colored hair. It’s because I’m Indian, he thought. When she’d boldly pronounced her armament, he’d been facing away from her.
The sandy-haired man extended his hand. “Robin Hurt Cowdry. We’ve met.”
“Sure. You’re from Zimbabwe, you import the African artifacts.”
“Botswana,” the man corrected. “Mugabe redistributed my keister all the way to Botswana. This is Doris, my niece.” And to the girl, “Mind your manners.”
She shyly faced Harold. “You can have my two-two,” she said, “but it’s back at the house.”
“I might need something bigger than that,” Harold said. His eyes turned to the cliffs as the moaning picked up in volume.
“Sounds like a bloody pride of lions,” Cowdry said.
Harold’s nod was half an inch. “It’s bison. Guy on the game range saw some on the escarpment before dark last night, maybe a part of the herd that came out of Yellowstone onto the Hebgen Plateau, reported it to FWP this morning. A guide putting in heard the ruckus” — Harold jerked his head to indicate the group standing at the boat ramp — “so he called the county and here I am with my hands in my pockets.”
“So you figure they fell over the cliffs?” Peachy Morris was tugging on his rowing gloves. “Fourth of July. All that racket down in the valley, people setting off fireworks. They could have panicked.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Then let me see what I can come up with.”
Harold crossed his arms against the bite of morning chill, caught the girl staring at his tattoos, the weasel tracks hunting around his left upper biceps, the hooves of elk following each other around his right.
“Are you an Indian?” she said, pushing the hair out of her face. “I’ve never seen an Indian.”
“Absolutely,” Harold said.
“I saw a Zulu warrior dance. They’re fiercer than you.”
“That’s because I didn’t put on my paint this morning.”
Peachy was back, handing over a revolver in a leather holster.
“It’s a .454 Casull. The loads are just snake shot but there’s some hard cast rounds floating around in my boat bag. Shoot through thirty inches of wet phonebooks.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Jah, you could right donner them with that. Couldn’t he, Uncle Robin?”
“Speak American, Dorry,” Cowdry said.
Morris produced five hard cast loads with the comment that they might not be enough. “How many you think there are?” he said.
“Sounds like a few.” Harold tipped out the cylinder to dump the snake loads and fed in the full power rounds. He turned to Cowdry. “I left a message with the sheriff. She comes, she’ll have doughnuts. Tell her to save me one of the glazed. Make sure your niece gets one.”
He raised his chin to the guide. “Peachy, you think you could row me across?”
He spoke briefly to the group who’d been standing on the bank, telling them to wait until he’d crossed before launching and to stay in their boats until they were through the cliffs. He left them stringing fly rods and pushed off with Peachy at the oars of the drift boat, making for a backwater on the far bank.
“You want me to come with you?” Peachy dropped the anchor.
“No, I got it.”
Harold ran his eyes to the tops of the cliffs, which were known as the Palisades and stood sentinel for a solid mile over the river’s west bank. The moaning sounds were louder here and sounded more like growling, though the reverberation on the rock walls made them hard to place. He drew the Casull from the holster and checked the loads. “I won’t be needing this,” he said, and tossed the leather holster to Peachy. He started hiking up the bank, holding the heavy handgun at his side.
The first buffalo was dead, a jagged edge of cannon bone sticking through the skin of its foreleg, its bowels evacuated, its enormous eye glazed over. A cow, fingers of shaggy winter coat hanging off like brown moss. It had rolled after falling off the cliff, carving a wide swale through the brush. Twenty yards farther up, where willows choked the river bottom, was a second cow. Its cavernous rib cage expanded, then collapsed like an accordion. With each exhalation, a ragged gurgling sound blew bubbles in the blood covering its nose and mouth. Its eye followed Harold as he walked around it, but it lacked the strength to turn its head. Harold clenched his jaw. He extended his right arm and shot it in the back of its skull.
At the shot, Harold’s arm jerked up and back, spinning him halfway around. He brought the barrel down out of recoil, feeling a sharp pain in his shoulder from the wrenching of his arm. Jesus, the thing was canon. His ears ringing, he sat down beside the dead bison. The roaring of other bison had become an undertone, dull and muted from the concussion. Eventually the underwater sensation subsided and the sounds of the dying animals came back.
Harold tucked his braid under the back of his shirt and fought through brush. He climbed until he reached the base of the cliffs, which was scree rock and sagebrush studded about with giant slabs of stone that had broken away from the cliff face. The rattling, guttural sighs seeming to surround him. He found another dead cow and then three bison still clinging to life, two of them lying down, one on its knees, feebly pushing its short horns against the withers of one of the fallen animals. Harold tore strips from his bandana and wadded them into his ears. He looked away for a few moments, putting off the inevitable. Then he grasped the rubberized grips of the handgun with both hands, extending his arms, and shot the bison that was on its knees. It rolled over and was still. He moved a few feet, sat down and shot the next one, and then the third. The great heads rocked with the impacts and the moaning stopped.
Harold got to his feet. He pulled the cotton out of his ears. Except for the river running, he heard nothing and the relative silence seemed oppressive. That must be the lot, he thought. He had gone a long way inside himself to find that still place where the hunter went when he killed, and only now did he take in a bigger picture. Harold was Blackfeet, his people were buffalo people, nomads who had followed the herds until there were no more herds to follow. For thousands of years his ancestors had driven bison over cliffs similar to those above him. In fact, Harold thought, it was entirely likely that they had driven bison over these very cliffs, for this had been a Blackfeet hunting grounds and the cliffs formed what was called a pishkun in the tribal language, a “deep blood kettle.” But that was before the white man came with his seeds and his cattle, before the Sharps rifles spoke and the Sun Dances held on the reservation became only ceremony.
Harold squatted on his heels, facing the river. He watched the occasional car pass by on the highway, a quarter mile to the east. If you lifted your eyes it was Eden as his grandfather’s grandfathers had seen it, the mountains uncolored by time. The irony of what he done, killing the first bison to have returned to these ancient hunting grounds in one hundred and fifty years was not lost on him, and the tears that hung on the high bones of his cheeks were the tears of his people. He ignored them as a white, boxy looking vehicle slowed and turned onto the access road. That would be Martha’s Cherokee. Well, he’d better get back across and give her the news.
The slope he’d climbed earlier was choked with willow and alder and he looked for an easier route down to the river. To his right the gradient eased, and he’d descended a few yards when he saw the bushes bulging and heard a sound like rocks clashing. The head of a bison emerged from the brush, strings of bloody mucous hanging from its nostrils. It was striking its hooves against the stone scree, pawing it. The bison was a little above him and it came in a stumbling charge. A bull, its great hump standing taller than Harold’s head, coming on three good legs, one rear leg flopping. Harold cocked the hammer on the last round in the Casull and held his fire. Twenty feet, ten, the bison’s head dropping to toss him with its thick, incurved horns. Harold brought the muzzle level with its forehead and pulled the trigger, then jumped to the side as the bull fell heavily, its nose plowing into the scree. For a moment it lay still. Then, slowly, it began to slide down the hill. It picked up speed, rolled over once and came to rest against the trunk of a limber pine.
Harold had felt the earth shake as the bison fell and now he couldn’t feel his feet underneath him. Where he’d been standing, blood painted the stones. He worked his way down to where the beast lay dead, into the envelope of its heavy odor, into their collective past. The underwater sensation was back and he shook his head. Such a magnificent animal. Such a waste of life.
That’s where he heard the bleating. It was not loud, but higher pitched than the moaning he’d heard earlier. He knew it must be a calf. He thought about going back to the landing, waiting for Martha, borrowing her .357 to finish it off.
No, do it now. Get it over with. He reached for the bone-handled knife on his hip.
Chapter Two: Facts of Nature
Martha Ettinger stood on the riverbank, looking across to the cliffs where she’d heard the last shot.
“That’s all he had with him, five rounds,” Robin Cowdry said.
Martha placed her hands on her hips and drummed the grips of her revolver. Harold should have waited for her, but if he’d waited, he wouldn’t be Harold.
“I can’t hear anything,” she said.
“He must have got them all.”
Martha shook her head. This was going to make news. Bison were a hot button issue in Montana, had been ever since the herds had started migrating out of Yellowstone Park more than two decades before, hazed back by cowboys and helicopters, or shot after crossing the border. To a degree the animals were pawns in a controversy that went beyond animal control and was in fact cultural warfare, everyone in on the act, from the cattle ranchers who couldn’t say the word bison without spitting to buffalo hippies who’d take a bullet for them, from Native Americans who wanted to bring herds back to the reservations to the urban electorate who’d like to see them roam freely on public lands. Even the governor was caught between the rock that was the livestock industry and the hard place that was public sentiment for this icon of the West that only a century ago had stood at the brink of extinction.
“Harold thought this was part of that Hebgen herd,” Cowdry said. “The ones that came out of the park.”
He might as well have been talking to a river stone.
“Here they come,” Martha said.
She’d seen the skiff pull out of the cove, Peachy hard at the oars. Harold wasn’t sitting in the bow seat from which a fisherman would cast, but looked to be kneeling on the boat’s bottom. Caught in the current, the skiff swept downriver at an angle, Peachy working it into the near bank some forty yards below the landing. He hopped out in his waders, taking the bow line to haul it upstream. Harold stayed where he was, Martha now seeing that he was bending over and his head was down. She felt a flutter in her blood and subconsciously brought two fingers to the artery in her throat.
“What’s that in the bottom of the boat?” Cowdry had pulled on his waders and was stepping into the river to help Peachy with the skiff. The girl, Dorry, stepped up beside Martha and reached for her hand. Her mouth was white with powdered sugar from the doughnut Martha had given her.
“Look,” she said. “Look.” She let go of Martha’s hand and jumped on a rock to gain a higher vantage. “Look Sheriff, he’s got a buffalo!”
Harold had stepped out of the boat into thigh deep water, his back to the bank. When he turned around, the bison calf was bleating against his chest. The veins on his biceps stood out from the strain of lifting it. He sloshed to shore and stepped onto the bank.
Martha started to speak, but there was something behind Harold’s half smile that gave her pause.
“Did that snake-bit calf pull through?” he said. He set the bison down so that the girl could pet it with her greasy fingers.
Martha gave him a look. “No, I gave her mouth to nose until Jeff Svenson showed, but she was too far gone.”
“What happened to the carcass?”
“Skinned and hanging. Why, do you want some veal? Personally, I’m a little put off by meat pumped with poison.”
“When did this happen?”
“Last night.” Last night when you didn’t come over. That part went unsaid.
Martha caught the amused look Peachy Morris was giving them. The last time Peachy had heard Martha talking with Harold about something and what they were really talking about was something else, he’d told them to get a room.
She looked hard at the fishing guide. He rolled up a stick of gum and put it in his mouth, wiped the grin off his face.
“What did you do with the skin?” Harold asked.
The shoe dropped as Martha shook her head.
“Hunch-ah,” she said. “It isn’t going to happen.”
Harold knelt down beside the little red bison, which had quieted down while the girl had her arm around it, but was now bleating incessantly.
“Hey little fella,” Harold said. He lifted his eyes to Martha, who mouthed the word, “No.”
“Meet your new mother,” Harold said.
—from Buffalo Jump Blues
CRAZY MOUNTAIN KISS will soon be available in paperback
Spring snow still clings to the teeth of Montana’s Crazy Mountains when an unsuspecting member of the Madison River Liars and Fly Tiers Club discovers a Santa hat in the fireplace ashes of his rented cabin. Climbing to the roof to see what’s clogging the flue, he’s shocked to find the body of a teenage girl wedged into the chimney. A rodeo belt buckle identifies the recently deceased victim as Cinderella “Cindy” Huntington, a rising rodeo star. Hyalite County sheriff Martha Ettinger has been hunting for the girl since she went missing the previous November.
Was Cindy murdered? Or was she running for her life—and if so, from whom? Suspicion falls on a buckskin-clad mountain man who calls himself Bear Paw Bill. But Etta Huntington, Cindy’s high-strung mother, herself a famous horsewoman, thinks the evil might lie closer to home. She hires fly-fishing guide and private detective Sean Stranahan to find the answers. Setting aside their after-hours relationship, Sean and Martha find themselves deep in an investigation that grows to involve a high-altitude sex club, a lost diary, cave pictographs, and the legends of the Crazy Mountains. With his signature wit and wry humor, McCafferty writes a pitch-perfect mystery that is as haunting as the Crazies.
“The death of a young Montana rodeo star propels McCafferty’s terrific fourth mystery featuring artist, fly-fisherman, and occasional PI Sean Stranahan… a must for fans of eclectic mysteries in which the setting is just as important as the characters.”
—Publisher’s Weekly, Starred Review
“Like Brad Smith and Elmore Leonard, McCafferty does a marvelous job of manipulating mood, moving from light to dark in such a way as to intensify both. This is the best McCafferty novel yet, and it’s a must for Craig Johnson and C. J. Box fans.”
—Booklist, Starred Review
“Stranahan’s fourth case blends humor with heartbreak, all flavors of eccentricity with a struggle for normalcy, and a natural backdrop that can make even the most powerful humans and their deeds look small.”
DEAD MAN’S FANCY is now available in paperback
Wolves howl as a riderless horse returns at sunset to the Culpepper Dude Ranch in the Madison Valley. The missing woman, Nanika Martinelli, is better known as the Fly Fishing Venus, a red-haired river guide who lures clients the way dry flies draw trout.
As Sheriff Martha Ettinger follows hoof tracks in the snow, she finds one of the men who has fallen under the temptress’s spell impaled on the antler tine of a giant bull elk, a kill that’s been claimed by a wolf pack. An accident? If not, is the killer human or animal? With painter, fly fisherman, and sometimes private detective Sean Stranahan’s help, Ettinger will follow clues that point to an animal rights group called the Clan of the Three-Clawed Wolf and to their svengali master, whose eyes blaze with pagan fire.
In their most dangerous adventure yet, Stranahan and Ettinger find themselves in the crossfire of wolf lovers, wolf haters, and a sister bent on revenge, and on the trail of an alpha male gone terribly wrong.
“The politics of wolves drives Keith McCafferty’s beautifully written third mystery featuring Montana fly fisherman and sometimes PI Sean Stranahan…”
—Publisher’s Weekly Starred Review
“McCafferty knows his country and his characters, who have a comfortable, lived-in feel and yet shine as individuals….[his] understated prose deserves to be savored.”
“[Dead Man’s Fancy] delivers a carefully plotted western procedural….Good reading for fans of [C. J.] Box, Craig Johnson, Nevada Barr, and Paul Doiron, although McCafferty has his own distinctive voice.”
“McCafferty’s third series entry lassos up a range of topics—wolf reintroduction, wilderness living and survival, animal rights—that are uncovered through his protagonists’ meticulous sleuthing.”
THE GRAY GHOST MURDERS is now available in paperback
Fourteen months after moving to Montana, fly fisherman, painter and sometime private detective Sean Stranahan is still sleeping in his office-cum-art studio, cobbling together a livelihood as a fishing guide while hawking his riverscape watercolors. No longer a newcomer, he now knows the rivers and has a new love interest in Martinique, a cat lover who earns tuition money for veterinary school by selling coffee as a bikini barista.
But a life of romance and the perfectly painted horizon are not to be. A search dog has discovered the graves of two men on Sphinx Mountain. Sheriff Martha Ettinger suspects murder, but with a bear having scavenged the bodies and the only evidence a hole in a skull that might or might not have been caused by a bullet, she once more turns to Stranahan for help. He already has a case, having been hired by a group of eccentric fly fishermen called The Madison River Liars and Fly Tiers Club to find a valuable fly hat they suspect stolen.
Could the disappearance of a vintage Gray Ghost from a riverside cabin in the Madison Valley be connected to the gray ghosts who haunt Sphinx Mountain? Stranahan will cross paths, and arms, with some of the most powerful people in the valley to find out while enlisting the help of his friend and fellow guide, the irascible Rainbow Sam.
THE GRAY GHOST MURDERS is a novel Oprah’s Book Club “can’t put down”
How to tie a Grey Ghost fly
Learn how to tie the Grey Ghost, the fly for which my second novel The Grey Ghost Murders is named. A historical and beautiful pattern… Click on the images below that link to videos.
THE ROYAL WULFF MURDERS is now available in paperback
A clever and fast-paced murder mystery full of wit, suspense, and fly fishing.
When a fishing guide reels in the body of a young man on the Madison, the Holy Grail of Montana trout rivers, Sheriff Martha Ettinger suspects foul play. It’s not just the stick jammed into the man’s eye that draws her attention; it’s the Royal Wulff trout fly stuck in his bloated lower lip. Following her instincts, Ettinger soon finds herself crossing paths with Montana newcomer Sean Stranahan.
Fly fisher, painter, and has-been private detective, Stranahan left a failed marriage and lackluster career to drive to Montana, where he lives in an art studio decorated with fly-tying feathers and mouse droppings. With more luck catching fish than clients, Stranahan is completely captivated when Southern siren Velvet Lafayette walks into his life, intent on hiring his services to find her missing brother. The clues lead Stranahan and Ettinger back to Montana’s Big Business: fly fishing. Where there’s money, there’s bound to be crime.
The fishing guide known as Rainbow Sam found the body. Or rather, it was the client casting from the bow of Sam’s driftboat, working a fly called a Girdle Bug in front of a logjam that parted the current of the Madison River. When the float indicator pulled under the surface, Sam winced, figuring a snag. The client, whose largest trout to date had been the size of a breakfast sausage, reared back as if to stick a tarpon.
The body submerged under the driftwood shook free of its tether, bobbed to the surface and floated, face down, the hook buried in the crotch of the waders.
The client’s reel screamed. The bloated corpse took line, steadily, implacably, in the manner of a large carp. Leaning hard on the oars, Sam closed the gap between his boat and the body. Calmly, in a voice that had coaxed a thousand neophyte anglers, he instructed his client to drop the long-handled net over the dead man’s head. The catch so enmeshed, he angled his Clackacraft downstream at the pace of the current, fanning the oars gently toward a bay at the bank.
“We got him!” the client beamed.
Sam thought, “Holy shit.” But he made a mental note to convert all his monofilament leader material to Orvis Superstrong in the future, just the same. The eight pound tippet had held like a stout steel cable.
“I’ll tell you what, Buddy,” Sam muttered, as he stepped out of the driftboat and gingerly lifted the meshes of the net over a hank of flowing hair. “You may not be God’s gift to trout fishin’, but you just got yourself a whopper of a story.”
Sam worked the hook from the waders, then rolled the body face-up. For the next few moments neither man spoke. The client, his florid face suddenly ashen, leaned over the gunwale and threw up, starting with the tin of kippered herring he’d had for a snack after Sam’s bankside lunch. He was a big eater and it took a half dozen heaves to get it all up.
Rainbow Sam just stared. It wasn’t only the ruptured left eye socket, from which a splinter of stick protruded like a skeletal finger, that riveted his attention. It was the lower lip, grotesquely swollen and purple as a plum. He bent down for a closer look. In the center of the lip was a trout fly. It was a Royal Wulff, a hair wing dry fly pattern about the size of an evening moth. Tied on a #12 hook, Sam decided. The barb was buried in the flesh; from the hook’s down-turned eye dangled a strand of monofilament leader material.
“Ah shit,” Sam said, having recovered from the shock of the mutilation. “I think I know this kid. Goddammit anyhow.”
For the angler was a very young man, little more than a teenager, Sam thought. He had floated past where the angler was wade fishing only a few weeks before, on a stretch of river not far upstream. He remembered the occasion because the fisherman wasn’t cut from the same khaki and Gortex cloth that stamped most Madison River pilgrims. Sam disapproved of anglers who dressed like pages out of catalogues. They projected a GQ quality that might serve one in good social stead at an upscale fishing lodge, but emphasized particulars to which trout paid no attention.
By contrast, this man’s waders were stained and patched and he fished without a vest, let alone one sporting the obligatory ten pockets. “How are you doing, Mr. Sam?” the young man had called out that morning as Sam glided by. And Sam, momentarily taken aback before realizing that the angler had read his name from the logo stenciled on the bow, had tipped his cap in reply. It was a grace note in the day, considering that wade fishermen and boat anglers competed for the same water. Tensions could become strained on a popular river like the Madison.
“Now why the fuck did this have to happen to a nice kid like that?” the fishing guide muttered to himself.
He waded ashore, sucking the back of a tooth.
“Stay here,” he said. “I’m going to call the sheriff. Don’t touch anything while I’m gone.” Sam’s client, having clambered out of the boat, was sunk to his knees in the shallows, a string of drool hanging from his stubbled chin. A few feet away, a school of tiny fish flashed under the yellow wash of vomit. The man nodded dumbly.
Rainbow Sam climbed the steep riverbank. For just a second he took in his surroundings, the river reflecting lavender evening clouds and the deeper purples of the mountains, its current running between banks of wild roses. It was part of what attracted anglers from around the world to the Madison—the setting and the water quality, a champagne of intoxicating clarity that poured in one effervescent riffle from Quake Lake to the small fishing town of Ennis. And then, too, there were the trout, with their ruby stripes and polished flanks, as hard as metal and as perfect as God ever made.
Well, Sam thought, this poor bastard has caught his last one.
He noted the nearest residences, a log mansion sporting panoramic riverfront windows and, just upstream, a chinked-up homestead cabin with a rusted half-ton in the drive. He spat, automatically registering the twenty-first century Montana paradox—Big Sky native cheek to jowl with summer gentry—whose house being the eyesore depending upon your point of view. Well, one ought to have a phone, anyway. He cinched the belt around his waders and began to walk.
—from The Royal Wulff Murders