Night Shift

by Annelise Ryan

  Ruth, who is also looking at Bob but with a more troubled expression, says in a quiet voice, “Do you think he killed himself?” I gather from their questions that they haven’t been filled in on a lot of the details surrounding their father’s death. This should be interesting.

  Bob immediately shifts his attention to Ruth, which seems to irritate Rebecca. “Why do you ask?” Bob says.

  “The officers who notified me of Dad’s death said it might have been a suicide, but he wasn’t the type to do that,” Ruth says, her brow furrowing. “He just wasn’t. Though I get why you might think it, given all the hardships and bad luck he’s had over the past few years. First Mom’s death, then the constant financial losses for the farm, and having the bank try to foreclose on the place. Plus, Dad was diagnosed with cancer last year.”

  “What?” Rebecca snaps, her head whipping around to stare at her sister. “Dad had cancer?”

  Ruth looks at her sister and nods. “Lung cancer. The doc said it was likely a combination of pesticide exposure from spraying crops and, of course, his smoking habit.”

  “Dad quit smoking years ago,” Rebecca says.

  “He started again after Mom died. He just managed to quit again a little over a year ago, but by then it was too late.”

  Rebecca looks confused. She straightens in her seat and spits out, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me about any of this?”

  “You were always too busy with your own life,” Ruth says with a shrug. “I tried several times over the past year to get you to come home for a visit, but you were always too busy with your work, or your love life, or some other excuse.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Ruth,” Rebecca mutters irritably. “If you had told me how serious things were, I would have made more of an effort.”

  “Dad wouldn’t let me tell you,” Ruth says. “He said he wanted you to come visit because you wanted to see him, not out of some sense of duty or obligation.”

  This seems to hit home with Rebecca. She sags back into her seat and a look of shame flits over her face.

  “Anyway,” Ruth goes on, “he seemed like he was doing better lately. For the past several months he’s been very upbeat about things. He said his cancer was in remission, and that leasing out his fields and selling off some farm equipment staved off the bank and helped him catch up on the bills.”

  Bob and I exchange a look. It’s clear that Arthur wasn’t totally honest with his daughter about the source of his income. I wonder if his cancer diagnosis had any impact on his decision-making with the plants he was growing under the barn.

  Neither of the girls misses our look and Rebecca calls us on it immediately. “What?” she says, folding her arms over her ample chest. She sighs with impatience. “What aren’t you telling us?”

  Bob looks at Ruth and says, “Did you know about the stuff your father was growing beneath the barn?”

  “Beneath the barn?” Ruth says, giving him an indulgent smile that suggests she finds the idea ridiculous at best. “The only thing my father ever kept in that nasty cellar area was rusted old farm equipment and the setup for his homemade wine.”

  “Apparently he upgraded the space,” Bob tells her. “He had a nice greenhouse down there.”

  “A greenhouse?” Ruth’s voice is rife with skepticism. “He told me he was done with crops. His fields are all rented out, so he couldn’t plant in them even if he wanted to.”

  “I don’t think the plants he had beneath the barn were ever meant for the fields,” Bob says. “The bulk of it was marijuana.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Rebecca says, rolling her eyes. She unfolds her arms and rakes both hands through her hair. “Is that what he was doing? Growing pot?” She laughs loudly, a bitter, ironic sound.

  Ruth says nothing at first, staring at her clasped hands on the table. Then she looks at Bob and says, “That makes a weird kind of sense.”

  “How so?”

  “I went with Dad to one of his oncology appointments months ago, and he was complaining to his doctor that the nausea medication he was prescribed wasn’t working very well. The doctor prescribed him something stronger, but it didn’t work either. I told Dad about a friend of mine who was getting chemo and who swore marijuana helped immensely with the nausea as well as with general anxiety. Dad pooh-poohed it at the time, but he must have rethought things and decided to try growing his own.”

  Bob sighs and licks his lips. I can tell he isn’t crazy about what he has to say next, so I decide to jump in.

  “Your father wasn’t growing a few personal plants. He had hundreds of them down there.” I pause and look at Bob, unsure how far he wants to go. He waves a hand over the table, an indication to cut it off there.

  “We’re not sure of how involved he was beyond the growing and processing of the plants,” Bob says, taking over. “Did he give either of you any indication of what he was doing? Did he mention anything about a financial windfall or the potential for losing the farm?”

  “He’s been losing that damn farm for the past four years,” Rebecca says with a roll of her eyes.

  “How the hell would you know?” Ruth snaps at her sister. “Have you bothered to come around at all? Have you taken the time to sit down with Dad and talk to him about the state of things? No, of course you haven’t, because you’re too caught up in your own life and your own selfish needs to have time for anyone else.”

  “Dad might not have shared anything with me recently,” Rebecca says, “but he told me several years ago that he was likely going to lose the farm. He was trying to talk me into taking it over.” She scoffs. “Like I’m that stupid.” She looks from her sister to Bob. “My father is... was a stubborn old fool who loved that farm beyond reason. He would have let the whole thing fall down and rot all around him before he would have given it up and moved away.”

  “It was his love of the place that turned it around,” Ruth argues. “He came up with the idea of leasing out the fields and it must have been working for him because he told me a few weeks ago that he’d paid off all of his debt and was thinking of doing some fix-ups on the house.”

  “That’s because he was growing pot in the basement,” Rebecca reminds her. “And I assume he was selling it.”

  Ruth appears taken aback by this. She starts to say something, but the words never come out.

  “Who was my father selling this stuff to?” Rebecca asks, turning back to Bob.

  “We’re not sure. We’ve been going over his financial records, but we haven’t been able to track down anything other than some large cash deposits that he made. In addition to the plants, there’s also a small laboratory area beneath the barn,” Bob says. “Do either of you know why it’s there? Does it have something to do with the day-to-day running of the farm?”

  Ruth looks surprised. “A laboratory? Are you sure?”

  “It’s a small, enclosed area with Bunsen burners, flasks, a stove, a sink, and some containers of fluid that we couldn’t identify.”

  “Maybe he improved on his wine-making efforts?” Ruth poses, but Bob shoots that idea down with a shake of his head.

  “Maybe he was cutting the weed with something?” Rebecca suggests, looking appalled at the idea. She puts her elbows on the table and buries her face in her hands. “Man, this isn’t going to play well in the news,” she says. “It can’t be good for my career.”

  Ruth turns and gapes at her sister with a look of disbelief. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” she says. “Is that all you can think about right now?”

  “Well, I need to make a living somehow,” Rebecca counters, her voice a bit whiny. “What do you want me to do, go back to waiting tables? I’m a celebrity in Minneapolis, and I have a reputation to protect. If it gets out that my father was a drug dealer, I’ll never get work again.”

  “Boo-hoo,” Ruth says, the words dripping sarcasm. “Maybe it’s time for you to consider a real career. It’s not like you’re making big money doing what you’re doing. And if y
ou’re a celebrity, I’m Martha Washington.”

  “You are such a bitch,” Rebecca sneers. Her hands are opening and closing into fists.

  “Now ladies, I think we need to take a few deep breaths and a step back,” I say. “We’re here to help you get through this and we need your help, as well. Can we please try to put aside past grievances, shelve the vitriol, and deal with the issues without all this rancor?”

  “What are you putting on a shelf?” Ruth asks, looking confused.

  “It was a metaphor,” Rebecca says with an irritated huff. “Vitriol means meanness and hateful criticism. If you hadn’t dropped out of high school so you could drop your panties for Horny Hopper, you might know that.”

  “His name is Henry Hockner,” Ruth says irritably.

  “Not amongst those of us in the know,” Rebecca says with a mean smile. “Given the way he hopped from one girl’s bed to another, I think our name was the more appropriate one.”

  Bob gives me a pleading look and I shrug. These two are a definite challenge and I’m not sure how to get them to stop their bickering.

  “Have the two of you made any plans for your father’s funeral?” I ask. “Because I can help you with that if necessary.”

  This stops the bickering and the two of them look at one another with dawning expressions. Just when I think I’ve got them thinking along more amicable and practical lines, they prove how wrong I am.

  “I want mother’s pearls and her diamond ring,” Rebecca says. “She told me I could have them back when I was in high school.”

  “Dad sold her ring two years ago,” Ruth says. “He needed the cash to try to stave off the bankers.”

  Rebecca looks furious, her teeth clenched, her eyes narrowed in anger. She shifts her gaze to Bob, who looks a little shell-shocked, and says, “Can we go out to the farm and have a look around the house? Maybe collect some personal things? We tried to go there when we first got to town last night but there was a guard at the base of the driveway who wouldn’t let us go up. Said we’d have to wait until this morning and talk to you.”

  “Let me check on something,” Bob says. “I’ll be right back.” With that he gets up and exits the room, leaving me there with the two daughters.

  “When is the last time either of you saw your father?” I ask.

  Ruth says, “About six months ago. I came here for a visit for a few days to see how he was faring with his cancer treatments. He seemed fine, great, in fact. I would have stayed longer but I have two kids, ages seven and eight, and keeping up with all their activities and such is a full-time job.”

  “Yeah, and I’m betting Horny Hopper isn’t a lot of help,” Rebecca sneers.

  “Henry helps,” Ruth counters. “He works full-time, so he can only do so much. When’s the last time you came to visit Dad?” she challenges, deftly changing the topic and putting her sister in the hot seat.

  “I called him,” Rebecca says defensively.

  “Really? When? A year ago? I called him every week and visited whenever I could.”

  “Well, aren’t you just the little saint,” Rebecca sneers. “My last play went on for six months, so it wasn’t like I could just drop everything and come for a visit.”

  “Your role in the play was a two-minute walk-on character that anyone could have played,” Ruth says with a roll of her eyes.

  “It may not have been a big part, but it was a very nuanced one,” Rebecca says. “And I didn’t have an understudy.”

  “That’s because the part was too small to need one. Hell, anyone in the audience could have played the part with a minute or two of prep time.”

  “You’re just jealous because you don’t have a life outside of running your kids around and trying to keep Horny Hopper from straying into other women’s beds.”

  Oddly enough and, if I’m honest, to my shame, I find I’m rather enjoying these two going at it, but Bob returns and cuts things short.

  “I have clearance to take the two of you out to the farm to look around the house. I can’t promise you that I’ll let you take whatever you want from there. We’ll make those decisions on a case-by-case basis. And parts of the house will be off limits. It’s still considered a crime scene and certain key areas are cordoned off.”

  “A crime scene?” Rebecca says. “Why? Because of the stuff he was growing in the barn?”

  “That’s part of it,” Bob says. “But I’m sorry to tell you that it appears your father didn’t commit suicide after all. He was murdered.”

  For once the two women are both dumbstruck. They gape at Bob with matching expressions of shock and horror.

  Then Rebecca looks at Ruth and says, “This is all your fault for suggesting that he try using marijuana for his nausea problems. You started him down this path. He was probably killed doing a drug deal.”

  Bob and I exchange looks of exasperation.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Becca, this isn’t one of your dramatic plays. Dad wasn’t a drug dealer. Why do you have to turn everything into—”

  “I’m going out to the farmhouse now,” Bob says, interrupting their latest battle. “I would suggest you two head there as well, if you don’t want to miss your chance.”

  With that, Bob leaves the room. Not wanting to be left alone any longer with the two women, despite how entertaining they are, I follow him. Bob walks out to the main hall and pokes his head into his office, which he shares with Detective Steve Hurley and Detective Junior Feller. Detective Hurley’s desk is vacant, but Junior is in the office and Bob speaks quickly to him.

  “I’m headed out to the farmhouse site. When those two yahoos in the conference room come out, would you please see to it that they exit out the front? And then turn the recording equipment off for me?”

  “Will do,” Junior says.

  “Come on,” Bob says, steering me to the back of the station. When we reach the break room, he says, “Those two harridans have given me a doozy of a headache.” He massages his temples to punctuate the statement.

  “Shouldn’t we be leading them out to the farm. Or driving them?”

  “I think I’d rather have someone pull my toenails out with pliers before I’d agree to ride in a car with those two. Let them drive themselves out there. They won’t get any farther than the base of the driveway.” He stops his massage and looks at me. “You’ve been up all night. You don’t have to go out to the farm if you don’t want to.”

  “You’ve been up all night, too,” I point out. “And I wouldn’t miss this circus for the world.”

  Chapter 20

  “Do you want to ride with me or take your own car?” Bob asks.

  “I’ll drive myself. I don’t want to get hung up at the farm. If things get crazy, I want to be able to escape and go home to my bed.”

  “Are you okay to drive? I don’t want you falling asleep behind the wheel.”

  “I’m okay. It’s more of a body weariness. And I’m going to stop and grab a coffee on the way as insurance. Want me to get you one?”

  Bob shakes his head. “Won’t the coffee make it hard for you to get to sleep when you do go to bed?”

  I shake my head. “Never has. I can drink a cup of coffee, go to bed an hour later, and fall asleep without any problem. Insomnia has never been an issue for me.”

  “Wish I could say the same,” Bob says. “I’ll see you out there.”

  I head for my car, pull out of the secure lot, and go straight to the drive-through coffee shop in town. I order a large coffee and sip on it as I drive out to the Fletcher farm. The officer parked at the bottom of the driveway waves me on through without question, so I’m guessing Bob must have told him I was coming. When I get to the house, I see that Bob and both Fletcher women are already there standing by the front door, and the women don’t look happy. There is also a uniformed county sheriff at the entrance to the house, one hand on his Taser as both women yell at him.

  I park as close as I can and hurry over to the group.

  “This is
our house, our property,” Rebecca yells at the sheriff. “You have no right to block us from entering.”

  The sheriff opens his mouth to counter this statement but both Bob and Ruth speak before he can utter a single word.

  “We do have the right to keep you out,” Bob says. “And if you don’t behave, that’s what I’ll do.”

  “Rebecca, you’re not helping matters,” Ruth whines.

  “Oh, shut up,” Rebecca snaps to her sister. “You’re always such a brown-noser. Stand up for yourself for once, why don’t you.”

  Ruth does just the opposite; she withers away, backing up several feet.

  “Ms. Fletcher, if you don’t knock it off right now, I’ll have you arrested,” Bob says in a surprisingly calm voice. “I’ll let you both enter the house, but it will be under my direction and you will only go where I say you can go. You will not touch anything while you are inside without checking with me first. Do I make myself clear?”

  Ruth nods immediately. Rebecca glares at Bob, looking like she wants to challenge him. Fortunately, she apparently decides otherwise and with a huff of irritation says, “Fine. Can we please get on with it?”

  Bob nods at the uniformed officer, who proceeds to step aside. Bob takes out a pocketknife, slices through the evidence tape on the front door, and then opens it a foot or so. Then he stops and turns to the women. “I have to warn you that the kitchen area is off limits. While we won’t be entering it, we will be walking past it. I wouldn’t advise looking in there, but I can’t stop you. I should also warn you that there might be a smell associated with some of the... um... remaining residue.”

  Ruth winces and looks like she might be ill. Rebecca just rolls her eyes, tapping one foot impatiently.

  Bob enters the house and we follow him in, me bringing up the rear. We gather in the living room so Bob can reassess everyone’s willingness to continue. The air has an odor like that of spoiled meat, but it’s more subtle than I expected. It was so carnal and fresh when I was here the other night, though I suppose removing the body also removed a large part of the source.