Die Like an Eagle

by Donna Andrews

  “The late Mr. Shep Henson was your husband?” he asked, when he had recovered.

  “Ex-husband,” she said. “But I should still be on the insurance. It’s not as if he had anyone else to leave it to. And when I talked to our sheriff, he said you’d taken all Shep’s papers. I want them.”

  “I see,” the chief said. “Sheriff Whicker is correct—I have taken custody of Mr. Henson’s papers as part of my investigation into his murder. I’m afraid I can’t release them at present. But if you’ll give me your contact information, I’ll see what we can do to expedite release of any insurance documents we find.”

  “I don’t understand,” Callie said. “Why can’t you just give me my papers?”

  Clearly, from the chief’s expression, he thought he had already explained why. I decided to chime in.

  “Insurance companies never pay a claim on a murder victim until the police figure out who did it.” I had no idea if this was correct, but if I said it with conviction, maybe I could help the chief get rid of Callie. “So your best bet is to do everything you can to help the chief solve it. The faster he does, the sooner you get your money.”

  “Really?” Callie looked astonished.

  I nodded my head. She glanced over at the chief.

  “Ms. Langslow is essentially correct. But I assure you, we’ll do whatever we can to expedite—er, to get you what you need as soon as we can. We haven’t actually found the papers in question—Mr. Henson’s desk was rather disorganized.”

  “Yeah, that’s Shep,” Callie said. “Couldn’t organize his way out of a wet tissue. But you’ll get me the paperwork as soon as you can?”

  She accompanied this request by simpering and batting her eyes at the chief. She was wearing false eyelashes so long and thick that it looked as if small black rodents were squirming on top of her cheeks.

  “As soon as I can,” the chief said. “And where can I contact you?”

  Callie rattled off her address and phone number. The chief scribbled in his notebook.

  “And just for the record, where were you on Thursday night between ten p.m. and two a.m.,” the chief said. “Just a formality,” he added, seeing Callie shrink back at the question.

  “I was down at the Pigeon,” Callie said.

  “The Clay Pigeon?”

  “That’s right, dearie.” Callie clearly found the thought of her favorite watering hole reassuring. “You just ask them down at the Pigeon. They know me there. I was there all night—I’m there most nights. If you drop in, maybe I’ll let you buy me a drink.” The rodents squirmed again, and Callie leaned over in a way that caused even more of her décolletage to spill out of the hot pink bra or swimsuit top or whatever it was. The chief nodded solemnly, staring pointedly at her face.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I won’t take any more of your time.”

  “That’s okay, dearie,” Callie said. “Any time.”

  She rose and sashayed out, with a lot of unnecessary hip swaying. The chief watched her departure with a slight frown on his face. Probably not the reaction she was aiming for. When she closed the door, he turned to me.

  “Would you mind following her to the entrance?” he asked. “Make sure she doesn’t give Kayla any trouble?”

  “Can do,” I said.

  “And see if you can detain her for a little while by engaging her in conversation,” he went on. “If you can manage to take away her keys, that would be excellent.”

  “You think she’s too intoxicated to drive?”

  “I would simply take her keys and administer a Breathalyzer, but I might need her cooperation for this investigation and I don’t want to poison the well.”

  “But it won’t hurt anything if she gets mad at me,” I said. “Okay.”

  I stood up and headed for the door.

  “If I can’t find an officer who can get here in the next few minutes, I’ll come out and arrest her myself, no matter how hard it makes things later,” he said. “But if you can delay her…”

  “Roger.”

  I exited and headed down the hall, trying to look nonchalant. Callie either didn’t notice me behind her or paid no attention. She had dropped the exaggerated swaying gait in favor of a comfortable saunter. I found myself staring with fascination at her hair, which actually seemed to glow slightly in the dimmer light of the corridor. Was this a natural phenomenon, or had she added some kind of fluorescent ingredient to her hair dye? Probably not tactful to ask, but I filed away the phenomenon as something that might be interesting to investigate next Halloween.

  For now, my job was to delay her. I rummaged in my purse and came up with a pack of gum.

  “Callie?” I called, holding up the gum. “Did you drop this?”

  As she turned she caught one of the spike heels on something and stumbled, catching herself on the front desk.

  “I’m so sorry!” I said, rushing over to help her upright again. “I shouldn’t have startled you.”

  “’Sno problem, dearie,” she said. “Not your fault, really. This slippery floor’s a death trap.”

  She frowned at Kayla as if she were responsible for the glossy, well-buffed linoleum.

  “Isn’t that the truth,” I said. “It’s only safe for the officers in their heavy boots. Are you sure your ankle’s okay? It looked as if you twisted it a little. Sit down for a second and let me check it out.”

  I steered her toward the nearest plastic guest chair, a purple one that looked particularly festive next to her lime-green and fuchsia outfit.

  “Are you a doctor?” Callie asked.

  “No, but my father is,” I said. “And I’ve picked up a few things.”

  I fussed over Callie’s ankle for a few minutes, and she seemed to enjoy the attention.

  “Maybe I should go down to the ER,” she said cheerfully. “Show my ankle to some nice young doctor and see what he thinks.”

  “Oh, good,” Kayla said. “Vern’s back.”

  “I think you’re good to go,” I told Callie. “Do you feel okay to drive?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Though maybe I will drop by the ER, just in case.”

  “Let me bring your car to the door,” I suggested, holding out my hand for her keys. “Save you a walk across that rough parking lot.”

  “Not a problem,” she said. “I’m parked right outside.”

  She pointed to a red truck parked in the handicapped spot just outside the front door—without benefit of handicapped plates or a sticker.

  “Don’t blame me when they throw you in the slammer,” I muttered, as she stumbled out toward her truck.

  Chapter 15

  “There’s no way she should be driving,” Kayla exclaimed.

  “That’s why I was stalling her until Vern got here,” I said.

  And then, just in case Vern wasn’t quite in time to spot the parking violation, I pulled out my cell phone and took a picture, taking care to get in not only the truck’s license plate but also the handicapped parking sign. I also got a nice shot of the driver’s door, which had CALLIE written on it in purple and gold cursive letters festooned with stars and flowers and way too much glitter. Was that actually painted on or was it some kind of vinyl decal?

  “I’m sorry,” Kayla was saying. “She just shoved her way past me.”

  “Not a problem,” I said. “Turned out okay.”

  I went back to the chief’s office. He was on the phone with someone.

  “That’s good,” the chief said. “No, I don’t know what she’s driving, but there can’t be that many other vehicles in the lot—”

  I held up my phone.

  “Yes, the red Ford Lariat,” the chief said. He rattled off the license plate number. “That’s right. Yes, the one in the handicapped zone. Yes, but the DUI is more important. Roger. Vern’s here,” he added to me as he hung up.

  “I’m wondering if maybe I should wait a little while before I drive,” I said. “Any chance I have a contact drunk from breathing too close to her?”
<
br />   “Perhaps she’s been drowning her sorrow over Mr. Henson’s death,” he said.

  “More likely her sorrow over the tragic disappearance of the insurance papers.”

  Just then we heard a siren go off nearby. The chief nodded with satisfaction.

  “Good,” the chief said. “Vern will handle her. No way I want her driving the streets of my county in that condition.”

  “I bet she came straight from the Clay Pigeon,” I said.

  “The Clay Pigeon,” he muttered. “It would be the Clay Pigeon.”

  “‘You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy,’” I quoted.

  “Which Holmes story is that from?” the chief asked. “I don’t recognize the reference.”

  “It’s from Star Wars,” I said. “So does this mean some poor Caerphilly deputy has to brave the squalor of the Clay Pigeon to check her alibi?”

  “I suppose.” The chief sighed and shook his head. “Just to be thorough. Although frankly, I don’t see the use. If she really is a regular at the Clay Pigeon, I’m sure the denizens of the place will back up any story she tells. ‘Wretched hive of scum and villainy’—you have no idea how apt that quotation is.”

  “Still, she’s a suspect, right?”

  “And all the more suspicious thanks to her keen interest in Mr. Henson’s insurance policy,” the chief said. “Which would be ironic.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Does he not have life insurance?”

  “He does,” the chief said. “Through Brown Construction Company. And it appears that upon divorcing the former Mrs. Henson, he changed his beneficiary to his brother.”

  “Biff?” I asked.

  “Yes, Biff,” the chief said. “He only has the one brother.”

  “A large policy?” I asked.

  “Depends on what you call large,” the chief said. “A hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Large enough,” I said. “Way more than pocket change. And as I already mentioned, I’ve begun to suspect that Mr. Brown is suffering from cash flow difficulties. A hundred thousand dollars would definitely be tempting to a man in that situation.”

  “No argument. But Ms. Peebles doesn’t look particularly affluent, either, and if she thought she was still his beneficiary—ah, well.” He straightened up, as if he’d suddenly remembered that he was talking to me, not Vern or Aida or another of his deputies. “We’ll sort it out before too long.”

  “And I’ll leave you to it.” I’d noticed that his eyes had been straying toward a monitor in his credenza with increasing frequency. I wasn’t sure whether this was unconscious or whether he was giving me a deliberate hint that I was overstaying my welcome. Either way, I figured it was time to go.

  “Before you go,” he said. “You’ve been studying Mr. Throckmorton’s list of Brown Construction clients in Caerphilly County. Notice anything interesting about it?”

  I thought about it for a few moments.

  “I had a hard time finding someone I thought would talk to me,” I said. “I think at least half the people on it were Pruitts, and you can imagine how likely they’d be to confide in me.

  “Or me,” he said, grimacing. “Though I interviewed them anyway, for all the good it will do. And your report of the quarrel between Mr. Brown and one of the Pruitts only confirms something I had already observed—that the relationship between Mr. Brown and the Pruitts is not as warm as it once was.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “None whatsoever,” he said.

  I thought about it for a few moments.

  “I wonder if Biff’s financial problems helped cause the demise of the Pruitts’ bank,” I said. “Or it could be the other way around and the bank failure caused his problems. Either way, I can imagine there would be ill-feeling on both sides.”

  “Very possible,” the chief said. “Look, you’re apt to have more chances to observe them than I will, and they’re less apt to be wary in front of you. So if you see or hear anything that might have some bearing on the issue, please let me know.”

  “Will do,” I said.

  “And please note that this is a request to share information you might come across in the normal course of your work for the county and your participation in the Summerball League, not an encouragement to involve yourself in my investigation.”

  “I will strive to be the proverbial fly on the wall in their company,” I said. “So you suspect the Pruitts?”

  “Perhaps.” He scowled slightly and stared into space for a few moments. Then he shook his head and sat up straighter. “Although perhaps we’re a deal too ready to suspect the Pruitts here in town.”

  “We wouldn’t suspect them so readily if they didn’t have such a history of getting up to suspicious things,” I pointed out.

  “True.” He was glancing at the monitor on his credenza again. “You might want to take the side door out,” he said, pointing to it. “Ms. Peebles is not proving to be a model prisoner.” I took a few steps closer and saw that the screen was filled with the pictures from half a dozen security cameras. All were serene and motionless except for one showing Kayla, apparently hiding behind the front desk, and one with a view of the parking lot, where we could see Callie’s truck standing in the middle of the entrance. As we watched she began flailing at Deputy Vern with the giant leopard-print purse.

  “I’m not sure she’s actually aware that she’s a prisoner,” I said.

  “Officer in need of assistance.” Shaking his head, the chief stood, pulled his gun out of the drawer again, and began buckling it onto his belt.

  “I can see another patrol car arriving,” I said.

  He paused on his way to the door and glanced back at the monitor. The second patrol car had effectively blocked the exit from the parking lot. Deputy Sammy Wendell got out of the newly arrived car and stood behind it. Callie had stopped trying to whack Vern with the purse and was digging inside it.

  “She’s got a gun!” The chief and I said it in unison as Callie pulled her hand out of the purse. He took off running.

  “Stay here,” he called over his shoulder. “Kayla, run back there to my office and keep your head down!”

  In the cameras, I could see Kayla rise from behind the front desk and disappear. A few seconds later she appeared at my side. Vern and Sammy had taken refuge behind their cars. I couldn’t see Sammy, but I had a good view of Vern on one of the monitors. He had his gun out and trained on Callie. Was he really going to shoot her?

  Callie, looked around triumphantly, evidently thinking she’d vanquished the officers, then gave a rebel yell and fired a couple of shots in the air.

  “Ms. Peebles.” The chief’s voice, amplified by a megaphone, carried easily all the way from the parking lot. “Drop the gun and put your hands in the air. I repeat—”

  Callie turned and sprinted for her truck, but she tripped again and went sprawling. The gun went off and the front left tire of her truck began rapidly deflating. Vern ran out and grabbed something lying on the asphalt—Callie’s gun. Then Sammy and the chief appeared. Sammy pulled out an evidence bag for the gun. Vern handcuffed Callie. Then he and the chief helped her to her feet and began escorting her to the station entrance. Or maybe dragging would have been a more apt term. Callie’s ability to walk or even stand unsupported appeared to be disappearing.

  “Wow,” Kayla said. “I wonder if my mom will still let me stay at the front desk after this.”

  “Probably not,” I said. “Do you really want to be at the front desk?”

  “Not really,” she said. “Never thought I’d say this, but I can’t wait to be back in the file room.”

  “Why doesn’t the chief call in a few volunteers, the way he usually does when they get swamped?” I asked.

  “He did, but they all went out to round up Merle Shiffley’s pigs.”

  I pulled out my phone and speed-dialed Mother.

  “Mother,” I said, when we’d finished with the usual amenities. “We just had a shooting incident down at the
police station. No one’s hurt, and I wasn’t even close to it, but I wanted you to be the first to hear that I’m fine.”

  “Oh, dear! What happened?”

  I told her, as succinctly as possible, but with enough detail that she could make it a truly spellbinding story when she hit the grapevine with it—as I knew she would about two seconds after we hung up.

  “So with all this gunplay going on, I’m not sure the chief is going to want Kayla Butler minding the desk,” I said in wrapping up. “Which she’s been doing to help out, because the murder investigation has them short staffed. Any chance you could call around and recruit a couple of people to help out here? Preferably people not qualified to take part in the pig roundup.”

  “Of course, dear.”

  “The shooting incident won’t be a deterrent?”

  “Hmm, yes. They might be miffed to be invited after everything’s all over. I’ll find a way to suggest that there could be more excitement in the offing.”

  With that she signed off.

  Kayla was watching the monitors, one of which showed the reception area where Sammy, Vern, and the chief were standing in a circle around Callie. She was handcuffed to an orange plastic chair and had fallen asleep—or passed out.

  “Thanks,” Kayla said. “Should I tell the chief about the volunteers?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Why don’t they take her back to a cell and let her sleep it off?”

  “They have to search her first,” Kayla said. “And for that they need a female officer, which means either Mom or Deputy Riddle, because Deputy Crowder is off on maternity leave.”

  I made a mental note that Kayla might be an excellent source to cultivate if I was curious about what was going on down at the police station.

  “So I guess they’ll keep her there, clearly visible in the security cameras, until one of the female deputies arrives,” I said.

  “Yeah.” Kayla nodded. “Oh, here comes your cousin Horace. He seems in a hurry.”