Wolfheart

by Hallie Lee

  Petey grinned, “He doesn’t have a dog either.”

  Luke ignored Max, while Petey gyrated around the office like an electric top. As far as I knew, Petey had no girlfriend, no dog, and not much of a job, and yet, he always seemed happy. Always. The kid just wasn’t right.

  “Any word on the search?” Lenny asked.

  “Not a thing. Quietdove’s out on the creek with the team. He should be reporting in directly. Want some coffee?”

  Lenny sat across from me. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

  “Max,” I hollered. “Get Lenny some coffee.” I glinted at Luke, who shuffled his feet. “What’s with all those flyers in your hand? Aren’t you supposed to be passing ’em out?”

  “We could use an endorsement.” He plopped them on my desk. “From you, the sheriff of Shady Gully.”

  “Luke, I ain’t got time to autograph all that mess.”

  Lenny threw his head back and cackled, just like he used to in high school. “Come on, Ricky. Folks are hesitant to get on board. Your support would go a long way.”

  Petey rifled through the bowl of taffy on my desk. Pocketed a grape and strawberry for later, and then tore the wrapper off a coconut one. “All you have to do is say yes, that you, the Sheriff of Shady Gully, wholeheartedly endorse the idea of incorporation.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Is that all?” I could forgive Petey his constant state of happiness, but he’d just snatched my very last coconut taffy. “Would you like me to donate a kidney too?”

  Unfazed by my sarcasm, Petey grinned, flashing me a mouth full of pearly whites.

  While I found his constant state of jubilance annoying, his shaggy hair and studied expression reminded me of Gerty. I frowned. “Sure. Do whatever you gotta do.”

  Gerty hadn’t been herself this morning. Her tail hung low, and a cloudiness dulled her normally bright green eyes. Most concerning, she hadn’t jumped on the counter to get her morning sink water. Nor had she shown any interest in her food. “Maybe we can get a decent veterinarian out here if this thing goes through.”

  “Something wrong with your cat?” Luke asked.

  “You have a cat?” Lenny asked.

  Petey’s eyes lit up with amusement. “Aunt Robin has a cat.”

  Robin. Perhaps Gerty’s current lethargy was a reaction to my brooding over Robin. “I’ve got a cat. Her name is Gertrude.” I glared at the three of them. “Anybody got a problem with that?”

  Lenny shrugged. “Nope. By the way, Desi, Robin, and I are going into Belle Maison for dinner tonight. Want to join?”

  My good buddy, Lenny, had tossed me a rope. I grabbed it. “Sure. Might be nice.”

  The phone on my desk pierced the easy silence. “Want me to get it?” Petey picked it up before I could swat his hand away. “Shady Gully substation. How can I make your day better?”

  I traded looks with Luke and Lenny. “Give me that.”

  “What?” Petey’s eyes widened. “Say that again, please.” He pressed a button on the phone, and a ragged voice filled the office.

  “I saw him…the night of the murder.” The tone was muffled, as if the caller wanted to disguise his identity. “Wolfheart was burying—a body—on the creek.”

  “Okay. Hold on, now. Can you tell me who you are?” I urged the caller.

  “It was him. He killed her.” Static. The sound of shuffling. “I have to go. Look at the sacred place for lost spirits.” The phone clicked.

  “Dang it!” I cursed. “Max! Get in here. I need you to trace a call!”

  “Uh,” Max hemmed and hawed. “I used to know how, but…I’m a little rusty.” He ducked into the lobby and found a pamphlet in his desk. “And I’m pretty sure you have to trace it during the call.”

  “Good gracious. We’re like the keystone cops around here.” I shook my head in exasperation.

  “Where’s the sacred place for lost spirits?” asked Luke.

  “Heck if I know. I’ll call Quietdove.” Just as I reached for my phone, it rang. “That’s him now. Yeah?” I snapped.

  “We got something.” Quietdove spoke urgently.

  “What?” I asked. “Madhawk? You found him?”

  “Not exactly.” The noise in the background made it hard to hear. “But there’s been another murder.”

  •

  I made it across the creek in record time. Twenty minutes to be exact. The siren atop the department’s Ford F-150 helped, but Luke’s request to tag along spurred my speedy pace more than anything.

  Not only did his glum demeanor cramp my style, but the kid’s angst brought me down. The less time spent in the cab of a truck with Mr. Doom and Gloom the better.

  He scribbled on a flyer. “You didn’t argue too much about my riding along.”

  “I didn’t have much choice, now did I? What with your Dad suggesting it would be an opportunity for you to get involved with the Creek People.”

  “And you just got your date with Aunt Robin and all.” He side-eyed me. “Wouldn’t want to mess that up.”

  “Don’t get sassy with me, kid. I’ll drop you off right here. That’d be a sure-fire way to get involved.”

  He grumbled incoherently, and gazed out the window with a forlorn expression.

  “Why so hangdog, Luke? I thought things were going well for you. Maybe even with Bella.”

  He heeded me for a moment, clearly pondering something tricky. As I drove carefully across the flimsy bridge that led to the creek, he said, “Sometimes I get sick of the sound of my own voice. It’s like everybody is over here—” he lifted one hand, “—and I’m over there. Alone. On a completely different page.”

  Good grief.

  “Take Petey, for instance. Everybody adores him. He’s charismatic. Charming.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t get carried away.”

  “And yet he breaks all the rules. He’s casual with other people’s feelings. He’s unreliable. Who cares though? Folks continue to fawn over him. Trust him with their secrets.”

  Definitely above my paygrade.

  “Maybe I’m too courteous? Too thoughtful?”

  I shrugged, gazed at the upcoming turn-off with longing. “I wouldn’t say that. Maybe you’re a tad too serious.”

  “Aunt Robin says I’m like Uncle Dean.”

  I put on my blinker. “You’re overthinking, kid.”

  “Really? Well tell me how Bella figures in with the Dolly scandal then?”

  Oh boy.

  As we turned around the bend, flashing red and blue lights lit up the potholes along Stormrunner’s drive. “We’re here.” I tossed Luke a pair of latex gloves.

  •

  The atmosphere at the crime scene was in stark contrast to the one at Peony’s. The EMT’s packed up their equipment without emotion. The crime scene techs traded gossip as they jotted notes into their iPads. And the grounds were absent of concerned members of the creek community.

  Stormrunner hadn’t evoked all the fuzzy feels like Peony had, and the only people likely to miss him were those on the fringes. Lacking Wolfheart’s green thumb, Stormrunner had chosen a different path to his life of crime. Back in the day, bartering fake IDs had been fruitful, and Stormrunner had sold IDs to kids looking to get into bars, or buy beer in Toulouse or Naryville, places where nobody knew them. Unfortunately for Stormrunner, he couldn’t keep up with the times, and once the technical age introduced features like Photoshop and digital scanning, he’d been forced to set aside his limited skills in lamination.

  “What happened to him?” Luke asked.

  “Well, I reckon Patty here is about to tell us.”

  Patty meandered over, offering me her closed fist. When I gave her a quizzical look, Luke brushed his fist against hers. “It’s a fist bump, Sheriff.” The kid looked pleased with himself.

  “If you say so.” I turned to Patty
. “Enlighten me.”

  “Sixty-five-year-old male, Stormrunner—”

  “I know who he is. The question is how did he die?”

  “Someone cut his throat. Probably with a double-edged blade. It didn’t go well.”

  “Oh man.” Luke blanched.

  Patty shrugged. “He had a lot of oxy in his system. He probably didn’t feel much.”

  Once Stormrunner’s career ended, he drank heavily, smoked dope regularly, and generally stirred up trouble wherever he went. One fight too many cost him an eye and rewarded him with a life-long limp. It also introduced him to oxycontin.

  “Gotta run.” Patty waved as she hopped behind the wheel of the EMT van. “The techs are wrapping up now.”

  Quietdove pulled to the side on his way in, allowing Patty plenty of space to avoid the potholes on her way out. When he parked, he sauntered over in the same leisurely manner as the rest of the law enforcement team.

  I pointed to the plastic bag in his hand. “What you got there? Dinner?”

  He flicked his eyes at Luke. “What’s the mayor doing here?”

  “Acquainting himself with the good people of the creek.” I peeked inside the bag he handed me. “Empty Tupperware? Water bottles? Ziplocks? Now I understand why nobody invites you to parties.”

  “That’s the only thing we found today.” Quietdove wiped sweat from his forehead. “Unless the state dogs find something in the black lands. I circled back so I could meet you here.”

  “Dogs get frisky over anything?”

  “Just this bag of throw away in the woods.”

  “Where’d they find it?”

  “Past Big Island Loop, a little less than a mile from Wolfheart’s place.” Quietdove glanced at Stormrunner’s dilapidated shack. “And they got antsy here.”

  “Enlighten me on what you saw inside, before Luke and I go take us a gander.” I winked at the kid, noting the green tint around his gills.

  Quietdove tugged his notebook out of his pocket. “Stormrunner’s shack appeared ransacked. Tossed. Otherwise, not much to see. There were empty bottles of oxy all over the place—”

  “Food?”

  “Nothing to speak of. Green cheese and a moldy sandwich in the fridge.”

  Luke frowned, pointing to the plastic bag. “If it was Madhawk, and he was looking for food and medicine…”

  I nodded. “Maybe he packed him a neat, to-go bag. Has this been fingerprinted? I’d like to take it, and show it to someone.”

  “I got the techs to throw a little dusting powder on the bag and the contents. So yeah, take it, but keep your gloves on. They want to look at it again.”

  Luke considered the bag. “There might still be latent prints. You know, from sweat, amino acids, and organic residue from fingers.”

  “Whoa,” teased Quietdove. “Somebody watches his NCIS.”

  “All right,” I said. “Go see how the dogs are enjoying the black lands and I’ll meet you back at the station. Luke and I have a stop to make after we’re done here.”

  “Sounds good,” Quietdove replied. Hesitated. “When you have a minute, I want to talk to you about something.”

  I waited. Tilted my head in Luke’s direction. “Is it personal?”

  “Not really.” Quietdove mulled it over. “When I spoke to Max a while ago, he told me about the anonymous call.”

  “Yeah. I was going to ask you about this sacred place for lost spirits.”

  “I’d be careful, Sheriff.” Quietdove’s words held a foreboding note. “Traipsing through those grounds, turning ’em up…there could be repercussions.”

  “I’ll take that into consideration.”

  “All due respect, you might start something you can’t finish.”

  “I’ve got a job to do.” I pivoted toward the house. “And so do you.”

  My best deputy’s dark eyes held mine for a moment, and then without another word, he headed to his vehicle.

  “All right, Luke.” I patted his shoulder. “You ready to go see a dead body?”

  He cleared his throat. “I think I’ll wait in the truck.”

  •

  As we drove up to Wolfheart’s place, the inscrutable man’s head popped out of his massive garden. For a moment, just before he recognized the department’s Ford F-150, an expression of tranquility filled his face. And then, just like that, it slipped away.

  By the time Luke and I padded over, Wolfheart’s familiar scowl took front and center. He removed his work gloves, and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “Sheriff. Luke.”

  “Don’t act so happy to see us,” I said in greeting.

  “Is this official business? Did the search dogs find Madhawk?”

  “Not yet.”

  He eyed my latex gloves, and the bag in my hand, while I eyed his garden. “I have to say, this is a mighty fine patch of produce you got here.” I sauntered along the edges of the well maintained 30 x 30 space, complete with a homemade irrigation system. “I tried my hand at growing tomatoes once, but dang if the rabbits didn’t eat up all my plants. Never got the first tomato.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “The next year I tried those pots, you know?”

  He nodded, setting his sights once again on the bag in my hand.

  “Didn’t go much better.” I scanned the design of the garden. “Looks like you’ve got yours in an L shape, huh?”

  “That’s right,” he answered. “On the northeast end I’ve got some corn stalks, with a two-foot walk space that leads to my bean poles, where I’ve got a few rows of southern peas and black eyes.”

  Luke put in pleasantly, “Mama made some of the black-eyed peas you gave her last week. Cooked them down with some ham.”

  Wolfheart came close to smiling, but caught himself in time. “Yeah, I sent her some squash too. They’re over there to the east side. And I’ve got some cucumbers to the south. Meadow’s been canning some, and she’s getting good at it. I’ll send some habanero pickles home with you.”

  The way Wolfheart chatted about his garden was downright affectionate.

  “And I see you have some peppers over yonder.” I casually strolled toward the herbs. “And some herbs.” Wolfheart stayed on my heels, as if he thought I’d tromp on one. Or he feared I’d see something I wasn’t supposed to.

  “What’s this here?” I asked, crouching. “It looks…familiar.”

  “It’s a cassava plant, Ricky.” He knelt next to me, tenderly replacing the soil I’d swept away, as if consoling it after my egregious offense. “It’s a great source of vitamin B.”

  We rose at the sound of tires crunching against gravel. When Bella brought Meadow’s old clunker to a stop, Meadow emerged from the house with a stern, pointed expression.

  “It’s Bella,” said Luke. He turned to me, as if asking permission to go to her.

  “Go on,” I said. “See if you can sweet talk her mama into giving me a jar of those pickles.”

  After he hoofed it over like an adolescent teen, Wolfheart asked, “Did you find what you were looking for in my garden, Sheriff?”

  “No. And that’s a good thing.” I analyzed his demeanor, searching for any sign of dishonesty. When I detected none, I opened the bag, let him take a peep. “You recognize any of these?” He reached for the bag, attempting a closer inspection. “Just look, don’t touch.”

  “I can’t tell. Everybody has Tupperware like that. Where’d you find it?”

  “The dogs found it. And they got all twitchy when they did.” I waited. When he didn’t react, I changed gears. “Tell me about the sacred grounds for lost spirits?”

  “Why?” Wolfheart made no attempt to hide his uneasiness. “Why do you need to know about that? Were the dogs there?”

  I didn’t answer, focusing instead on Bella and Luke, who were in the middle of a s
erious tête-à-tête on the front porch.

  “It’s a special place for the Creek People. For generations it’s been held as a place of deep reverence. It’s considered holy and consecrated ground.”

  “What’s there?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing you would understand. Trust me, it’s not pertinent to your investigation. You’re getting side-tracked. Maybe deliberately. Who told you about this place?”

  I kept my eyes on the porch, bemused by Luke and Bella’s conversation, which had turned stilted and awkward.

  “Focus on the dogs, Sheriff. They will lead you to Madhawk.” Wolfheart let out a weary sigh. “Madhawk hates dogs.”

  •

  The tablecloth was white, the candles were lit, and I wore my best pair of khakis. The restaurant echoed with intimate whispers and clinking silverware. The waiter had some bizarre accent that Desi found simply delightful.

  “Is that truffle butter?” Desi asked in wonder.

  When the blond-haired dude with the strange accent responded in the affirmative, she and Robin dissolved in pleasure. As Robin chatted with him about the wine list, she spouted off words like legs, finish, and texture. I honestly couldn’t tell if they were discussing chicken or paint.

  To me, the place smelled like steak and freshly baked bread. I sat adjacent to Robin, who was all dolled up in black cashmere and white pearls. I felt like a Neanderthal from Hicksville, so to make myself feel better, I focused on Lenny, my friend and fellow Neanderthal.

  The waiter presented us with a tray of mouthwatering bread and at least three kinds of fancy butter, all swirled to a perfectly pointy tip. I resisted the urge to dig in, especially as Robin smiled at the flamboyant waiter and ordered something called foie gras.

  I didn’t blink an eye. Robin rocked my boat, even if she was a vegetarian.

  Finally, Desi said a prayer and passed the bread. Desi and Robin took their time, breaking their bread in teeny, tiny plates, followed with a careful dash of the coveted butter. Lenny, meanwhile, dove in like a koi fish going after crackers at a zoo.

  “So…uh,” I tried to engage Robin. “When are y’all headed to Osprey Lake?”

  “Probably in a few days. I’ve been having so much fun at Desi’s.”