Hometown Homicide

by C. K. Crigger

  “That’s them. Chris is Aimee’s nephew. The Forrests took him in after he got in some trouble in Seattle. This was a few years after you left town. They retired to Arizona a while back, but for some reason, Chris decided to stay on here.”

  Nodding, Frankie had another question as long they were discussing co-workers. “And Darryl? I know he’s a volunteer. How does he make a living?”

  “Hah.” Maggie huffed. “I swear, he’s one of the most secretive men I know. He works a little for Hayes in return for rent on an old house on the property. He janitors at the elementary school, gets odd jobs, fills in at the casino and generally doesn’t seem real ambitious.” She made her disapproval clear before shifting focus. “C’mon, Frankie. It’s just us girls here now. What’s the scoop? Which of Denise’s boyfriends does Gabe suspect?”

  Surprised, Frankie put the onus back on Maggie. “You tell me. You’re the one who knows everyone. Tell me about Russ, about this Matt guy, about Marc. And Chris, even if he wasn’t a real contender.”

  So Maggie did tell her. A delightful ten minutes of raw and reprehensible speculation. True or not so true was anybody’s guess.

  Frankie drove the old back-up ambulance, completing a fifteen-minute run by herself before Lew and the night dispatcher arrived. The emergency hadn’t been a big deal. Just a four-year-old who’d stuck a pea up his nose. She provided a quick lesson on how to teach a kid to blow his nose, and that was that.

  Lew, whom she found pacing the floor when she got back to the station, actually cracked a grin when she told him about it. “Must be somebody’s first child. Mama doesn’t usually get in such a panic by the second or third. We get at least one of those up-the-nose calls every year.”

  Later, as she ran the dusting wand over the ambulance before the next call, Frankie took time to mull over what Maggie let drop about Marc’s “episode” with Denise, as she knew it, and Jesselyn’s boyfriend. He now had a name, and Jesselyn a legitimate reason for keeping it secret.

  Turned out Jesselyn’s new beau was another of Denise’s old boyfriends, of which Russ was bound to disapprove. Russ’s feelings were apt to be hurt when he discovered his sister dating the man who’d been his rival over Denise. Knowing Jesselyn, she didn’t want to upset him if the relationship didn’t pan out.

  Frankie, an impish enthusiasm driving the notion as she dusted the bus’s wide rear bumper, got busy concocting an excuse to meet him. This part of the talk with Maggie was fun. The other part, what she’d told Maggie in return, was what caused her feelings of guilt. She’d definitely given up more information than prudent.

  In retrospect, she shouldn’t have spilled the story to Maggie, the biggest rumor-monger in town, about Russ Pettigrew not only owning the duplex but about Denise conning him into letting her stay there rent-free. It wasn’t Frankie’s place. If anybody needed to possess the information, it was Gabe. Although he probably already knew. Anyway, going by Maggie’s reaction, Frankie now regretted the deal. The dispatcher took a little too much cynical joy out of the news for comfort.

  When Gabe strode into the station, commanding her attention, it had the effect of removing the flub from her mind. Freshly shaved, his uniform clean and crisp, he looked good. Too good for her peace of mind. But tired, too, as if he hadn’t gotten enough sleep. Her fault?

  The smile he flashed at her didn’t seem accusing. “I got your note. The bichon has duly received her evening dose of antibiotic.”

  Lew scowled his disapproval. “Frankie duped you into taking care of those damn dogs, huh?”

  Gabe nodded good-naturedly. “I don’t mind.”

  Frankie, who’d been anxious about overstepping her bounds when it came to asking favors, blew out a relieved breath. “Shine didn’t protest, did she? I hope she wasn’t any trouble.”

  “She didn’t put up much of a fight. She’s a ten-pound dog and hurting to boot. Squirting five ccs of Amoxicillin in her mouth wasn’t much of a chore. The only problem was Banner.”

  “Banner?” She could hardly believe it.

  “Yeah. He wanted some too.”

  Lew snickered, leaned back in his chair where he’d been checking time sheets, and tossed an empty Pepsi can into the trash. The thunk as the can hit bottom flashed a memory across Frankie’s brain like the sear of a burn.

  “Oh! I just remembered. Stupid!” She tapped her forehead with a finger. “Lew, the last time I talked with Howie,” she said, noticing the way both Lew and Gabe’s ears perked, “he told me someone from the station came to the duplex yesterday afternoon asking for me. He said it was funny because the guy went around to the back. He told me it wasn’t you, but I wondered if somebody here had a message for me.”

  Frowning, Lew shook his head. “If they did, nobody told me about it.”

  “He didn’t say who?” Gabe’s voice was so quiet she almost missed the tension in it. Almost.

  “Said he didn’t know,” Frankie replied, watching Gabe.

  “Kind of strange, all right.” Lew shrugged, missing Gabe’s response. “Ask Karl when you see him. Or better yet, ask Maggie.”

  “I will.” But Frankie couldn’t help thinking if someone gave Maggie a message to pass on, not only would’ve it been promptly delivered, but she would’ve demanded to know every detail regarding the contents. Ergo—Howie’s report of a message was somehow wrong.

  She wasn’t the only one who thought so. Gabe honed in on her unease. Well, she felt a weird vibe all right, and what it did was send chills down her spine. Who had the person really been? The killer?

  But, the next moment, she accused herself of having an overwrought imagination. If Gabe reacted before, any sign of it had gone. His phone rang. Putting it to his ear, he said, “Zantos,” then stood listening. After a moment, he nodded. “Yeah, on my way. And, Shane, thanks.” He clipped the phone to his belt again and motioned for Frankie to walk out to the SUV with him.

  “That was Shane, from the CS unit,” he said when they were out of Lew and the dispatcher’s earshot. “He said they’re done working the scene and have locked up. You’re free to clean out your stuff anytime you like, if that’s what you decide to do. Otherwise, you can move back in if you want.” He stared toward the hill outside town—the one behind the duplex. “I wouldn’t recommend it. We still don’t know if the killer found what he was looking for.”

  A hot, glowing flash lit the nerves behind Frankie’s eye, pain wiping the question she meant to ask from her mind. Hoping to forestall a stronger reaction, she pressed two fingers against her right temple—and noticed Gabe tracking the action. Damn him. Sometimes he saw too much.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Frankie lowered her telltale hand, clenching it into a fist instead. “Sure. Just a little…” She trailed off, unable to explain.

  He took her arm, urging her toward his vehicle. “About the duplex—I don’t like the idea of you going there on your own.”

  Another flash. “Have you forgotten I’m an army veteran, Deputy Zantos? I’ve been in combat. I can take care of myself.” Or could, if only she didn’t feel so fragile most of the time.

  “Without a gun in your hand, you’re a lightweight.”

  Gabe’s words were such an echo of her own thoughts she almost wondered if she’d voiced the part about being fragile out loud. Anger jabbed, making her go tense, until she realized he wasn’t insulting her, but referring to physical attributes.

  “I’m tougher than you think,” she said. “I’ve had to be.” God, how she hated even oblique mention of those cursed war wounds.

  “But you’ll find another place in the morning after work, right?” he pressed.

  At least he hadn’t forgotten what she said earlier. “I’ll try. Believe me, I don’t want to go back into the place. If I could afford to abandon my stuff, I would.”

  This made him smile. “Ask somebody—one of the guys from the station—to go with you.”

  “Safety in numbers?”

  “Exactly.”


  A light came on as Gabe opened the door to his SUV. Frankie noticed the sun was sinking beneath the horizon, casting long shadows over the town and touching distant fields with gold. The day’s heat had begun to dissipate, leaving gasoline fumes and the scent of crushed weeds in its wake.

  Before Gabe could climb into the SUV, another car, headlights stabbing over them, sped into the parking lot. Frankie leaped out of the way as the car stopped, driver’s-door-to-driver’s-door beside Gabe. The car, a new metallic black Mercedes-Benz SL63 AMG, had a woman at the wheel.

  “You,” the woman called to Gabe, ignoring Frankie as if she were invisible. “You’re the law around this burg, right?”

  Gabe touched the brim of his hat. “Yes, ma’am. Resident deputy for this side of the county. Is there a problem?”

  “My husband tells me there have been two—two!—murders in town within the last couple days. I want to know what you’re doing about it. I want someone patrolling the beachfront properties twenty-four/seven until this killer is caught. You are trying to catch him, aren’t you?” The woman looked down her nose at Frankie. “Or is part of your job standing around blathering?”

  Hmm. Not invisible after all. What a relief.

  The looking-down-the-nose thing should’ve been impossible since the driver was sitting in an expensive car and Frankie was standing, but there you go. Frankie thought it must be a trick a certain type of woman learned early on. The air of command, the assuredness her every whim would be catered, the self-confidence a great deal of money could buy. The car, the diamonds in her ears and on her fingers winking under the newly lit parking lot lights, all told a story of privilege Frankie couldn’t hope to match.

  Not that she wanted to. Shamelessly, she eavesdropped on what the woman was saying.

  To Gabe’s credit, he didn’t flinch, not even with the woman’s stare stripping him down to his BVDs. No mistaking that look. And he knew it, too.

  “We’re doing everything we can to apprehend the person responsible, ma’am.”

  “I want an officer protecting my property at all times,” the woman said again. “God only knows who this creature will come after next.”

  “Ma’am, I can step up patrols., but I don’t have the manpower to keep someone there around the clock. We need every available officer working the case,” he said, sounding perfectly polite.

  “Really?” the woman sneered, a faint lifting of her plumped lips. “We’ll see what the district attorney has to say. I’ll have you know Abel Conner is a personal friend of mine. You’ll be hearing from him.”

  Before Gabe could say another word, she sped away, her car kicking parking lot gravel onto Frankie’s legs.

  Blinking, Frankie stared at Gabe, who smiled faintly and shrugged.

  “Who was that?” she asked openmouthed. And then, without conscious thought, “Where is Denise Rider’s BMW?”

  Chapter 15

  If Gabe answered Frankie’s question, the klaxon that blared inside the station just then drowned him out.

  Simultaneously, Gabe’s shoulder mic began spewing unintelligible words. He listened, told her “Later,” and took off. By the time he got to the end of the parking lot, his siren was screaming its eerie wail into the dusk.

  Lew, already in the ambulance, pulled out of the garage ten seconds later. Frankie ran to join him. Inside the garage, the two on-call volunteer firemen were scrambling into the pumper truck.

  She got into the bus and swung her door shut. “What’s up?”

  “Combine accident.” Lew popped the clutch. “Out at Acton Hayes’s place. Hydraulics line running the leveler broke. Machine tilted, threw the operator off and managed to start the field on fire.”

  Frankie, still fastening her seat belt, glanced over at him. “Hayes place. That’s where Chris lives, right?”

  “Yep. He’ll have any injuries under control.”

  Contrary to Lew’s expectation, Chris wasn’t on scene when they arrived only a minute or two behind Gabe. Presently, the fire truck drove up, the volunteers jumped down, and, dragging hoses, started spraying water to knock down the fire around the burned-out combine. Glowing flames lit the field beyond the machine. Sparks leaped into the darkening sky like swarms of tiny LED Christmas lamps.

  She spied one heroic man on a Caterpillar tractor plowing a firebreak close to the burning wheat while a pickup with water barrels in back ran interference for him, spraying embers as they landed. A line of men and women with shovels and sacks beat at the edges of the fire line.

  Apparently, every person in and around Hawkesford had turned out.

  Lew and Frankie, with Frankie keeping a close eye on the field closest to them in case the conflagration spread, dragged equipment through choking smoke and hot, blackened stubble to reach their victim.

  Barely conscious and incoherent with pain, the injured man lay helpless, surrounded by hot ash. Frankie dropped to her knees beside him, wincing as overheated earth burned through her pant legs.

  “You’re okay,” she said to him, unsure whether he was even aware help had arrived. “We’ve got you. You’re fine. Lew and I are going to take good care of you.”

  He moaned, choking for air.

  “Hold on, sir. We’ll have you out of here in a jiffy.”

  “Not my fault.” His words were barely audible over the roar of machines and shouting men. “Cut. Not my fault.”

  Frankie exchanged a questioning look with Lew. What did the guy mean?

  “Talk later.” Lew leaned over him, adjusting an oxygen mask over his mouth. “Save your breath.”

  A quick examination revealed a shattered tibia along with a fire-bitten arm and an obvious case of smoke inhalation. Frankie inserted an IV. Lew took vitals and reported to the emergency physician at Kootenai Medical in Coeur d’Alene. Presently, he inflated a splint around the man’s leg and applied a wet cover to the burned arm while Frankie injected fentanyl. With quick efficiency, they got the patient stabilized and ready to roll within a few minutes. Lew nodded his approval.

  Groaning a little herself, Frankie got up and brushed soot from her knees. Their patient was not a small man. Lifting him onto the stretcher took all the strength she had.

  Back in the ambulance, Gabe, on traffic detail, directed them to the main road. Dodging gawkers and firefighters, Lew hit the siren and soon put on a burst of speed. Frankie, surrounded by the stomach-twisting odor of burned flesh, sat in back monitoring the patient. Regardless of fentanyl, as soon as the shock wore off the pain would start, poor guy. She knew. Been there, as a caregiver, as an observer, and as a patient.

  Out the rear window, she saw the firefighters were gaining control. The flames were lower now, more smoke than fire. As they sped away, those remaining shrank to a faint glow on the horizon in the deepening night.

  It wasn’t until they were on the way back to the station after the run to the hospital that Frankie remembered the woman in the Mercedes and questioned Lew about her. “You saw her talking to Gabe at the station, didn’t you? Who is she?”

  Lew dimmed his lights against an oncoming car. “You’ve met her husband.”

  “I have?”

  “Yep. And as I remember, you weren’t impressed.”

  Frankie got the connection. “Dr. Muncie’s wife, by any chance?”

  “Smart girl. Got it in one. Only don’t ever refer to her as Mrs. Muncie. You might not come out alive.”

  “Who made that mistake?” That sounded like a good story was in the offing, and Lew didn’t disappoint.

  “Karl Mager.” Lew’s grin reflected against the dark windshield. “You never saw a man’s face turn so red in your life. I couldn’t decide if it was because he was mad as hell or just mortified.”

  “Oh, dear.” Frankie snickered. “I hope this was a private meeting.”

  “No such luck. It was at a Christmas dance to raise funds for Hawkesford emergency services. You’d be surprised at how many of the summer folk turn out to support us. Gives them something to brag
about.”

  “Good to know. But what did Karl do?”

  Lew shrugged. “What could he do? Turned around, went over to the bar, and inhaled Jack Daniels until the lake contingent had enough of consorting with the yokels and left.”

  “Poor Captain Mager.”

  “Yep. The woman’s not much for the little people. Don’t want to get in her way, and that’s for sure.”

  They were silent as Lew hit the brakes to avoid a deer—and then another since where there was one, there nearly always were two—dropping his speed as the highway passed through a wooded section.

  “So what do people call her?” she asked when they came out the other side.

  “Besides bitch?” Lew huffed out a breath. “Her professional name is Ms. Barwick, and don’t you forget it. Ms. Alexis Barwick, to be exact.”

  “That was Alexis Barwick?” Even Frankie had heard of her. The woman had been in all the papers, on CNN, FOX, and about every other big news venue of late wrapped up in litigation regarding the US Government vs. Hanford Nuclear Fallout Victims. Ms. Barwick was not litigating on the side of the survivors, who grew fewer every day. Soon they’d all be gone, and whether the government won or lost, the claim would be moot. The attorneys, of course, would still collect their obscene fees.

  At the station, Lew backed the ambulance in beside the pumper truck, which had already been freshly washed free of soot, smoke, and water spray. The duty staff gathered in the break room, drinking coffee and rehashing the fire for the rest of the night.

  “An arson inspector is coming out in the morning,” one of the firemen reported.

  “Arson?” Frankie’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. Seriously?”

  The fireman nodded. “Gabe Zantos got to looking around the combine. Said he didn’t believe the hydraulic line burst of its own accord. He thought it’d been cut. So he’s got a call in to the inspector.”

  “The guy, our patient—” Frankie fell silent, trying to pluck an elusive memory out of the air, then she got it. “Our patient said something odd.” She glanced at Lew. “Remember? He said, ‘Not my fault.’ Actually, he said it twice.”