by Lakota Grace
“What do you want? Why are you here?” she asked coldly. What did Malcolm want in Jill’s office? He didn’t belong here.
“And why are you?” he responded. “Good little employee that you are. Not rifling through Jill’s desk like a common thief to see if there were items no longer needed?”
“Jill left some last minute errands for the event tomorrow on her desk. I wanted to be sure I had canceled them.”
“And did you?”
“Of course.”
“I wondered, since I noticed you were gone earlier today before we got the sad news. So unlike you, Harriet, to be absent on the eve of the Open House.”
Malcolm’s personality could switch from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde in an instant, depending on who he was talking to. Harriet, unfortunately, received more of the latter and less of the former. Malcolm was baiting her, she knew that, and yet she rose like an obedient trout to the all-too-familiar lure.
“And you, Malcolm? When I parked, your car wasn’t there. And is that a speck of mud on your shoe?” she cooed. “So unlike you, Malcolm. Are they doing landscaping at the Casino?”
A small smile touched her lips as he glanced down involuntarily and then brushed his wingtip against his pant leg.
But she’d gone too far. She’d pay for her insinuation. He would make sure of that.
“What did you want?” she asked again, trying to hide her anxiety.
“The police called. They need to inventory Jill’s office and interview the staff. I told them the employees had gone home, so they’re coming tomorrow instead.”
“And?”
“Where were you this morning?” he asked.
Harriet reddened. She’d been having an argument with Lenny, but Malcolm didn’t need to know that. She touched her head.
“Getting my hair done at the beauty parlor for the meeting. Jill knew I’d be gone,” she said defensively. She’d missed way too much time on account of Lenny’s illnesses. And it was none of Malcolm’s business, anyway.
“And I presume the salon’s owner can vouch for that?” He looked at her closely. “I thought not.” He examined his nails, pulled clippers out of his pocket and trimmed a sliver of nail. “The fact is, Miss Harriet, we were both out of the office when Jill Rustaine was murdered.”
He gave her a sharp-edged glance. “It seems we have a choice, you and I. We can direct the detective’s attention elsewhere or…”
“Or?”
“Or we might both hang together. Which is it to be?”
So it came to this. She hesitated.
“I know that you held Jill in high respect,” he said. “We all cared for her. And now we must keep her memory intact by allowing the company to grow, to become what it can be, in her honor.”
Harriet picked at a piece of lint on her skirt. What was the man aiming at? Why did he have to think she wouldn’t do the right thing?
“I see you hesitate,” he said. “It might be worth noting that I passed the office the day before Jill was murdered. I heard the argument the two of you were having.”
“It was nothing,” Harriet said. “You know how Jill can be.”
“Indeed. But I heard Jill say you were fired. What was that all about? Why are you still here if you were fired, Harriet?”
There it was. He knew. Harriet felt the noose tightening.
“On the other hand, no one needs to know. You could stay here, maybe even get an increase in pay. I could make it worth your while when I am promoted to CEO.”
So he was offering a bribe. Or was it a threat?
“That won’t be necessary,” she said in clipped tones. “You were here, we were both here the entire morning, discussing the particulars of the upcoming board meeting.”
“Yes, we can corroborate each other’s presence. Good thinking! I can see why Jill promoted you to be her assistant. So that means that we should get our stories straight. You, my dear Harriet, were here all day, working diligently on the tasks that the firm required of you, I can attest to that, while I…” He paused and looked at her.
“I checked in on you several times during the day,” Harriet said reluctantly, “regarding details on the upcoming IPO.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said. “To-do lists are never finished, are they? I expect you here promptly at nine tomorrow morning for the meeting with the police.”
“Of course,” Harriet said.
Stupid man. He had no idea. The stiff corner of the journal rubbed against her thigh, and she tightened her leg to secure it.
After Malcolm left, Harriet sat unmoving, as his footsteps echoed in the silent building. Then she rose and locked Jill’s office door. She grabbed Jill’s journal and scooted into her own office through the washroom connection. There was no way she was letting this journal out of her possession until she had gone through it page by page looking for who might have murdered Jill.
Was Malcolm the killer? If he was, Harriet would find out. And he wouldn’t go free even if it meant losing her job.
Breathing heavily, she pulled out her phone and dialed her home number.
“Yes, Lenny, I understand.” She pulled the phone away from her ear as his complaining nasal voice came over the speaker.
“I’ll pick up something for dinner on the way,” she said soothingly. “Or there’s left-over roast in the refrigerator. You can just microwave it to tide you over. I’ll be home soon.”
She stuffed the journal deep into her purse and locked her office door carefully behind her. Tomorrow, she’d get the locksmith back to change the lock again.
You could never be too careful with company secrets.
* * *
Harriet found her husband Lenny on the couch watching TV when she arrived home. She waved at him and went into the kitchen. She deposited the pizza she’d picked up on the counter and surveyed the mess in front of her. She’d left the kitchen straightened and tidy this morning, but Lenny had been home watching television. He’d dumped a day's worth of dirty dishes in the sink. He hadn’t even rinsed the remains of breakfast off his plate, leaving the egg yolk dried and stuck tight.
Harriet put on an apron to protect her clothes and scrubbed hard at the mess with a steel wool pad.
“You get us some dinner, Harry?” Lenny’s voice drifted in from the living room.
Harriet hated that nickname, which Lenny had bestowed on her after their first fight. She did the household chores, the inside ones, anyway. Lenny’s sole responsibility was mowing the lawn, although once Harriet had come home to discover the neighbor doing it. He brushed off her objections, saying that Lenny had a bad day.
What about Harriet’s bad days? Like this one?
She rinsed off the plate and put it on the rack to air dry. Then she pasted a smile on her face and went in to greet her husband.
“You’re home late.” He pointed to the clock on the table by the couch where he sat, still in his wrinkled, night-before pajamas. “My headaches are back. Here, rub right here.”
He presented his forehead for a massage, which she did, and then kissed him lightly. Sometimes he was more like a little boy than a man. He couldn’t help being sick. She reminded herself that she’d promised for better or worse when she’d married him. She didn't want to think about where they were on that equation right now.
“An interesting morning at work,” she said.
“Oh, yeah?” Lenny didn’t look at her; his attention was back on the television which was showing an old rerun of Jeopardy.
“What is the capital of Madagascar?” he shouted. “I should be on that show. I’d make a fortune.”
Harriet grabbed the remote and switched off the television.
“Listen to me!”
He swiveled around on the couch and opened his eyes wide, mocking her command.
“What?”
“Jill Rustaine was murdered out in West Fork.”
“Wow! That’ll be something to tell the boys at coffee tomorrow. How’d it happen? I’m al
l ears.”
Why did she hope he would react to the news as she had done? He was in one of those mind states where Lenny was number one, with no sympathy for her own distress.
“I got you some pizza,” she said, moving into his world.
“Pizza! My favorite. You can tell me all about Jill over dinner. You think you’ll get a raise when Malcolm takes over? That would make things easier here. You know I hate to shop on Discount Wednesday. That’s when the deadbeats are at the store.”
He beat her to the kitchen. “No anchovies, remember? I hate anchovies.” He waved at her when he opened the box. “You’re the greatest, babe.”
CHAPTER 7
SHEPHERD MALONE checked his watch again and stared at the winding line of red brake lights ahead of him on I-17. What should have been a 90-minute commute from Phoenix to the Verde Valley had turned into a nightmare.
An overturned semi ahead blocked the northbound lanes, and the traffic backed up in knots that jerked his tired nerves. There was no alternate route. Once the divided freeway left Black Canyon, there was no exit until the top of the mesa. Politicians had talked for decades about the need for some emergency exit lanes, and with the state budget tight that’s all that got done—talk.
Worse, the cellphone reception had vanished in the steep grade to Sunset Point Rest Stop. Usually, that would be a seven-minute inconvenience until the top of the hill was reached. Now, unless the traffic started moving, Shepherd faced possible hours without communication with home and his daughter. A nascent headache pulsed behind his left eyebrow, and he rubbed it with fingers stiff from clutching the steering wheel.
What had Thorn gotten herself into this time? Shepherd knew there’d been trouble. She would come home and disappear into her room for hours at a time. But there was more. Once he’d gone to call her to dinner and surprised her crying into her pillow. She jerked upright and snorted when he asked her if it was a boy.
“If only,” she said. “Work.”
And she left it at that, refusing to say more. Shepherd blamed himself. He’d never been a good communicator, and when he got frustrated, his backup position was a retreat into a rigid, self-righteous anger. His ex-wife had called him on that more than once.
He tried to be more patient. But this girl-child pulled out the worst in him, sometimes. He’d have to watch it tonight when they talked. Dad first, Cop second.
His mind ruminated on the confrontation that lay ahead. What if she were involved? Maybe there’d been a disagreement that led to an argument or possibly worse. She’d had that trouble at school, after all. His mind ran uncontrolled as a mountain torrent, creating one chilling scenario after another.
Shepherd chewed the inside of his cheek, waiting for the traffic to start moving again. At last, he spotted the red and blue flashing lights he’d been watching for. The traffic speeded up as it passed the accident site and gradually built up speed and separated into strands of fast-moving vehicles.
Shepherd passed car after car in his need to reach the front of the line. How fast was he going on the final swing over the Copper Canyon Hill on I-17? He stopped looking when he hit 90. Then he spotted the one Camp Verde highway patrol on night duty stopping someone, and he reluctantly slowed.
It was late when he reached home, almost midnight. Shepherd’s headlights shone on Peg’s Jetta as he pulled into his driveway. He swung wide onto the verge so she would have room to back out when she left.
He should turn off the car engine and go into the house, but he just sat there, letting the motor idle. The conference had been a series of meet-and-greet interactions so necessary to start a new business. And there were some successes. He’d written a contract for a corporation needing credit checks. Boring work, but steady pay. He’d need that for his new private investigative company to succeed. Then he got that phone call from Peg.
How to handle this situation? Thorn had arrived at his doorstep a month ago without notice, as usual. He’d had to call his ex-wife to get the details. Another run-in with the school officials: truancy, suspected drug use, then that confrontation that got her kicked out of school.
The frustrating part was his daughter was smart. But she was determined to make her own mark in the world without listening to authority. Shepherd had pulled a few strings and landed the summer internship at Jil-Clair Industries. He hadn’t seen her much, though, in the past few weeks. Work always seemed to come first before this changeling child who was his daughter.
Shepherd hadn’t been involved in Thorn’s life since the divorce. He understood the strains a cop job put on marriage, and when his wife, Tabatha, asked for a divorce he hadn’t contested it. Nor did he object to his wife’s request for sole custody. What did he know about raising a girl child at this stage in his life?
Now that he was retired, he’d hoped things would be different. Maybe not. Thorn had changed from the little girl he’d read storybooks to. Some of it was normal teenage moodiness, but Tabatha insisted there was more. Over Shepherd’s objections, she’d talked the doctors into putting Thorn on a heavy drug regimen.
Was she still taking them? He had no idea He’d asked her about it when she arrived and got a hostile stare. He should have pushed it, found out exactly what she was taking. Was she using drugs on the side? Sometimes when he came into the house, he’d caught a whiff of marijuana. They’d gone round and round about that.
“No drugs in this house,” he shouted.
“Marijuana is legal in Colorado,” she responded, “and anyway, I’m not using.”
And then he’d back off, not wanting to escalate matters.
But this was different. If Thorn was involved in any way with this woman’s murder, he had to know. And if she lied about it, he’d discover that, too.
Shepherd turned off the motor, jerked the parking brake, and stepped into the bitter air. His breath sent shivers of fog upward into the stillness. The seasons were turning, and he wasn’t getting any younger, either.
The house door handle was locked. Good. At least Peg made sure the house was secure. That was important. The world was an unsafe place. Shepherd unlocked the two deadbolts and turned the key in the lock, entering the living room lit by one dim light.
It had minimal furnishings, the way he designed his life now. A single comfortable chair, a couch for guests. On the floor, a worn Indian rug and in the corner the guitar he hardly ever touched anymore. The black-and-white kitten that he’d cared for when Thorn was younger was a plump, middle-aged cat now, living with his ex. Just as well. No need to add animals to this mix.
Shepherd slammed the house door behind him, startling Peg who was drowsing on the couch. With an effort, he calmed his demeanor. It wasn’t Peg he was upset with, it was himself and this damn situation with Thorn. He patted Reckless briefly when the dog rose from his position next to the couch.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. It’s been a helluva drive.”
He stripped off his driving gloves and threw them on the side table. Then he peeled off his leather jacket and tossed it there, too. It slid to the floor. He grabbed it, threw it back up.
“Where’s Thorn?” he asked.
“In her room. She was tired after everything that happened today.”
“We’re all tired,” Shepherd said. He rubbed his eyes, trying to blink the lingering Phoenix smog out of them.
“You want me to stay?”
Peg seemed hesitant, and he understood. She had witnessed the fierce Malone temper before. He presented the cool cop exterior, but once off the job he sometimes boiled over, yelled, threw things, just to let off steam. Rarely did he let that dragon out of its cave, but it lurked at the edge of consciousness, always waiting.
“Nah,” Shepherd said. “I want to talk to my daughter alone, straighten out this mess.”
Still, Peg hesitated.
Damn it! She needed to leave before he lost it. With an effort, he made his voice smaller and forced a smile.
“We’ll be fine. Go. I’ll cal
l you tomorrow and let you know how the arraignment goes.”
After Peg and Reckless departed, Shepherd paced back and forth for a moment and then moved into the kitchen. Thorn had left dirty plates and glasses overflowing the sink, a smear of jam stuck to the table, and a towel flopped on the floor.
Shepherd had warned her before. If the kitchen counter wasn’t cleared, the clutter would attract ants, or worse. Stifling his exasperation, he emptied the dishwasher, stuck the dishes in, and wiped the stove clean in sharp jerky movements.
His headache intensified with deep throbbing pain. He stopped to take in a few deep breaths. He couldn’t procrastinate any longer.
But the mess that Thorn left in his normally neat house didn’t end there. In the hall leading to Thorn’s room was a trail of shorts, T-shirts, and old socks. He snatched them off the floor and tossed them into the bathroom hamper. He found damp mildewed towels humped on the floor.
“Thorn!” he shouted from the door to the hall.
No response. Shepherd’s jaw tightened. He clenched his fists once, and then released them, taking in another deep breath.
He returned to the kitchen and opened the tall cabinet over the refrigerator. There, he pulled out the bottle of single malt whiskey, a retirement present. He poured two fingers of the liquor into a crystal tumbler and belted it back in a single gulp.
If Thorn had anything to do with this murder, she’d be arraigned, booked, likely have a record, at least until she reached 18. There went any chance of a good college. As if he could afford to send her to one at this point. Bail alone would strip every last penny he had, and more. And then attorney’s fees to defend her. Where would that come from?
He opened the dishwasher once more, put in the tumbler, and straightened his shoulders. Time to finish this before he lost his dwindling supply of patience. He stalked the hall into Thorn’s room.
Thorn lay sprawled on the bed, earbuds in, thumbing through images on the phone bought with his money. The thought of her lounging there, not willing to face up to her responsibility infuriated him.