Storm Crazy

by Livia Quinn

  Chapter 12

  If you keep this up I won’t be able to dig you out with a backhoe.

  * * *

  Jack

  “Basile, keep everybody away from the lawn, greens, fairway—and everything else around here. I’ll get Peggy to call the police department and see if they have any personnel they can loan us.”

  “Gotcha, boss.”

  I flipped him the yellow crime scene tape. Walking back to my cruiser, I peered inside. I could have sworn I’d locked it but I guess I’d screwed up. Tempest Pomeroy had flown the coop and taken the possible murder weapon with her. In my experience those actions translated into an admission of guilt.

  There was something very odd about this whole scene. I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Something to do with that damned antique vase. Figuring it out would have to wait. Right now, I had to secure the crime scene and make sure the collection of evidence was handled expertly—quite a challenge with Destiny’s small town resources, part-time lab techs, and borrowed coroner.

  I released the radio from the dash and called dispatch. “Peggy, put out an all points on Tempest Pomeroy. Call the Mail Center and get her tag. The Feds will track her down. If they find her before I do, I need that fancy vase in her possession. It’s evidence, and not that it’ll do any good, but tell them not to handle it.”

  “I’m on it, Sheriff,” Peggy said.

  We had a word for a day like this in the Navy—FUBAR. “Oh, and call DPD and the Citizen Patrol and see if they have anyone who can volunteer for about twelve hours at this location.”

  I disconnected and immediately my cell phone started playing “Call Me Baby” instead of my choice—“Ride the Lightning” by Metallica. Jordie had struck again. “Hey, baby, I know, I’m late. I’m on a case. Can you catch a ride?”

  “I’m fifteen, Dad, not eight. I’ll see you at Grandad’s later,” she said, and hung up. Why did she always get the last word?

  I sighed and punched more numbers.

  “Kirkwood,” said the voice on the other end, a SAR specialist friend of mine who I’d talked into making his leave from the Navy permanent.

  “Ryan, I need you on a crime scene PDQ...”

  “Roger that. Where?”

  Fifteen minutes after calling Peggy, I had two men from the police department down in Amity and Ryan Kirkwood helping to secure and search the area. I assumed Peggy’s call to the Universal Mail facility would get some results.

  Even when I’d caught Pomeroy in the act she hadn’t been forthcoming with her reasons for breaking into the locker except to say the vase belonged to her brother. She never said how she knew it was there.

  I dialed the office. Peggy picked up immediately.

  In the six months I’d been sheriff Peggy had never not answered on the first ring. She was maneuvering for a promotion to investigations.

  “Peggy, find out everything you can about Tempest Pomeroy and, her brother, River.”

  Without breaking stride, Peggy proceeded to give me some of River Pomeroy’s background off the top of her head; one good thing about having a hometown desk Sergeant. I listened to her praise—self-made contractor, in business four years. His sister had practically raised him from elementary school through college.

  “And paid for everything herself,” Peggy said. “River’s a sweetie, and Tempe’s solid.”

  “Yeah, well, today wasn’t one of her stellar days,” I muttered. “I caught her breaking into a locker at the clubhouse just a short hop from our victim.”

  Peggy’s voice lowered, “Jack, Tempe and River are well respected around here, a miracle considering their early years.”

  That caught my attention. “What does that mean?”

  “Their mother is a flake. Take it from me.”

  I did. Peggy doesn’t even criticize the prisoners in lockup. “So, Tempe’s mother wouldn’t get the Peggy Donovan Best Parent Seal of Approval, eh?”

  “Let’s just say, if it hadn’t been for Tempe, she and her brother would have wound up in foster care. If she broke into that locker, she must have had a reason.”

  “If she does, she’s hiding it from me.”

  I started to ask about the father but the lab techs arrived. “Get me addresses on all the Pomeroys, Peggy, and anything else you can think of. Leave it on my desk. I’ll be late. You don’t need to hang around.”

  I ended the call and thought about the information she’d given me on River Pomeroy. He lived at Harmony Plantation, near Lightning Bayou, with his sister.

  I couldn’t help but wonder why a successful contractor would be so attached to such an ugly vase?

  Tempe

  “What kind of trouble are you in now?” Dylan’s quiet voice grated over my cell, like he didn’t want to be overheard.

  “I thought you were out of pocket,” I said.

  “You’d better be glad I returned this call. Seems the local badge put a BOLO out on you. It won’t be long before they find you.”

  I groaned.

  “Damn, Te—if you keep this up I won’t be able to dig you out with a backhoe.”

  All morning my emotions had been close to the surface, affecting my ability to hold my Tempestaerie-ness in check, like a tropical storm on the verge of earning an official name. But two blocks away from the clubhouse I started thinking more clearly and a plan formed. I could make two stops and stay out of serious trouble with UM; one to deliver my last big package and the second to deliver on a promise I’d made this morning. Then I’d drop my mail in the first collection box—not the preferred method—and arrange for Tuesday off so I could look for River. I’d run Phoebe down tonight and see what she knew.

  “I’m aware I’m not the most popular employee right now with the new agency, Dylan, but I’ve got to find River. I can’t do that locked in the back of a police car. I’m going to drop all the mail in the closest collection box before 4:30. It’ll be close, but I think I can make it.”

  I counted to six while colorful curses flooded my ears. “That’s against procedure, and you’ll miss your return inspection.” Irritated, he asked, “The sheriff’s dispatcher mentioned stolen evidence?”

  “River’s amphora. I’m not giving it back.”

  He was silent.

  “Yeah. I found it in that locker in the clubhouse. Now I know there’s something wrong.” My voice caught. “I didn’t worry when he didn’t come home last night—okay I did, but not overly—then one of his subcontractors called me this morning, irate, when River didn’t show for their meeting.”

  My phone beeped, the caller ID read Beck. I ignored it.

  “Look, Dylan, if you want to help, just sit on all this for a couple hours. Gotta go.” I snapped the phone shut and knew wherever he was, his blood pressure had just gone up.

  I intended to pass up the rest of the boxes but a familiar figure in his premature St. Patrick’s Day getup was seated on the end of the last one, legs crossed, all gray Impy skin and green clover. “Hear ye’ve had a bad day, eh, Colleen?”

  “Get in, Marty. I’m in a hurry. And can the Colleen crap.”

  Eyes wide, he backed up, one hand holding his polyester clover, the other palm out. “No, I can’t get in that old truck. Too much iron, ‘ya know.”

  “You’re not a faerie or a Leprechaun so it doesn’t matter. I don’t have time for this, Marty. Get in, now!” I ordered, tears dangerously close. Why was he being so uncooperative?

  He gave up the charade. Carefully picking his way down onto the lid of the mailbox, he leaped across the two-inch distance between lid and window, then pulled out my cup holder and plopped his butt into it. “There, now, lassie. Let’s calm down.” The little sycophant.

  I tossed the mail in the box and slammed it shut. My hands shook. Whether from adrenaline or fear, I didn’t know. Then there was that quickening thing everybody kept talking about.

  We drove in silence for a few seconds.

  “What do you know about River?” I asked.

  “Riv
er? Nothing, I swear. Why are you asking me?” he squeaked.

  What an odd reaction—guilty? “When was the last time you saw him?” Marty was kind of a family familiar but he is an Imp after all which means he’s selfish, caring more about his schemes than doing familiar kind of stuff, you know, tagging along with or being a support to his holder, handler, owner—whatever.

  He made a show of trying to remember, propping his chin on his index finger and squeezing his eyes shut. “I believe it was Saturday.”

  “Marty, could you change into something less... clothing minimalist. I need you to do some undercover work, see what you can find out.”

  Many of the fae and supernaturals resented clothing; they claimed it interfered with their natural abilities. I could relate, in fact, but I’d grown up more human than supernatural and I’d absorbed their social mores for the most part to fit in with the community and at work.

  “Okay.” Marty transformed into a black unitard, like a mini cat burglar. “Perfect for playing spook,” he said.

  He was perfect for it. Marty could go anywhere, be anything—anything small. He was inquisitive and resourceful, and, all that aside—I was desperate. He was officially my brother’s familiar, but I never saw them together.

  “So, what seems to be the problem?” Marty asked in a tell-the-doctor-everything voice.

  “River’s missing,” I said. Marty frowned, looking genuinely concerned. “I just found River’s amphora at the scene of a murder.” I pointed to the bottle on the floor by my feet. Marty peered down at the bottle and paled, diving head first over the back seat into a mail tub.

  “Let me out of here,” he whined.

  What in the world? Iron wouldn’t affect Marty. “There’s nothing in it, Marty.” I picked the vase up and tried to coax him back into the front seat. “See?”

  His eyebrows disappeared up under his hairline, and he squeezed himself up into the corner behind me, flattened against my backside glass. He screamed, “Keep that thing away from me. I promise, I’ll see what I can find, but let me out. Please, Tempest,” he begged.

  I banged my head against the headrest. What was his problem? More Impish-ness? “Fine. Get out.” When the next mailbox drew even with my window I eased it open. He scrambled out from behind my seat and dropped out through the open window.

  “Tempe.” He hung from the window edge briefly. “Be careful.”

  The expression on his face, oddly one of compassion, triggered a memory long buried. Marty had appeared for the first time to River and me, the day Dutch died.

  Chapter 13

  I didn’t mention the being a fugitive part.

  * * *

  Tempe

  I drove up to the high school entrance five minutes later to fulfill the promise I’d made to the school secretary. The clock on the radio read 4:21. In less than ten minutes, I was going to add another sin to the list I’d already amassed today.

  A teenager sat on a bench out front as I pulled up to the double doors at St. Mary’s. Face turned toward a young male leaning down over her, she turned as I drove up into the driveway. The young man trudged off, head bent; worn athletic shoes scraping the pavement. He glanced back at me once before turning the corner of the building. Something didn’t seem quite right there.

  I got out and skipped up to the double doors, finding them locked. “Shootfire,” I said, glancing over as the girl walked toward me, hands extended.

  “I think you’re looking for this.” She handed me a rubber banded flat of large envelopes. “Miss Madge said to give them to the mail carrier.”

  “Thanks.” I took the letters and started to get in on the passenger side of my truck but something about her tugged at me. Her air was confident, her posture erect, unlike so many kids that slouched around the high school games. But there was a lonesome independence about her, as if she didn’t have, no, it was more than that, didn’t need friends. “Was that boy bothering you?”

  Her eyebrows sank a bit as she looked off in the direction the boy had taken. “Not…really.”

  Hmm, that didn’t sound good. “Are you waiting for someone to pick you up?” There weren’t any cars in the parking lot and no one milling around but her, and that boy.

  “No, Ma’am. My dad has to work and I couldn’t get in touch with my grandparents. So, I’m going to hang around until the guys’ practice starts and catch a ride with somebody, or wait on my dad.”

  “Where do you need to go?”

  “My grandparents live over on Ledgerton, off Oakland Drive?”

  Add another sin—riding a passenger. “I’m going near there. Jump in. I’ll give you a lift.”

  “Uhh… I don’t know. I’m not supposed—”

  I stuck my hand out. “My name’s Tempe. I’m safe.” I held out my ID badge. “See, mail carrier, Federal background check, picture ID and everything.” (I didn’t mention the being a fugitive part.)

  She leaned over to look at it cautiously. “Well...”

  “What’s your name?” I prompted, because we had to G-O-Go.

  “Jordie,” she said after a pause.

  “Nice to meet you, Jordie.” I looked toward the corner of the building. “Somehow I think your family would feel better about you being with me than sitting at a locked up school building after hours.”

  “I guess, but...” she peeked in the window, “where am I going to sit? Aren’t you driving from the passenger side?”

  “Oh, that. Just get in and we’ll take care of this stuff on the way. I have to drop this mail in the collection box near the Donut Shop by 4:29.”

  I ran around to the driver’s side, looking at my watch. 4:26. She buckled her seatbelt and we peeled out of the driveway.

  “Okay, if you don’t mind, collect those packages on the floor at your feet and this bundle.” I handed her the mis-sorts from my dash.

  “Now, put these in that tub with the other letters and that batch of mail Madge gave you, and when I pull up to the collection box, shove it through the slot.”

  I looked in my rear view mirrors as she stuffed the mail into the box. Very efficient. I pulled forward when she was done and asked, “So, where am I dropping you?”

  “My grandparents’ house,” she said and gave me the address, which was two blocks from my favorite malt shop. My stomach growled.

  UNbelievable.

  “How about a malt? It’s on the way and we can drive thru.”

  The smile she gave me was perfect and completely unself-conscious. “Sounds great.”

  Jack

  “Jack,” Kirkwood ran up the walkway to the clubhouse, “that Pomeroy woman—” his voice lowered ominously, “She’s got Jordie.”

  Fear sliced into my gut. A red haze glided over my vision. I blinked it away, grabbing his shoulders. “What did you say? Never mind. Where? Hurry, man.” He filled me in as we ran toward my cruiser.

  Jordie had been seen in Tempe’s truck at the malt shop. I threw myself into my vehicle, flipped on the siren and raced through the subdivision toward town. “The friggin’ malt shop?” I yelled in disbelief, pounding the steering wheel.

  I called Peggy. “Forget what I said, Peggy. No one goes home until I find my daughter. Tempest Pomeroy was seen with her at the malt shop. Get the head guy from the mail center on the phone. And report a kidnapping to the DPD. I want her found ASAP!” I shut the phone and pounded it on the seat.

  What did she need a hostage for? Was this personal somehow? No. I tried to think like a lawman, but as a father, all I could think of was losing my little girl to yet another crazy ass woman; another woman my instincts had mistakenly convinced me I could trust.

  I tried Jordie’s phone on the way to my parents’ but all I got was not available. “Damn it.” I slapped the dash in frustration. I pulled up to my parents’ one story brick rambler and ran to the door. No one responded as I let myself in. I made a quick sweep of the rooms to verify Jordie wasn’t there, and got back on the highway.

  My blood pressure ros
e, making my head pound. I took three breaths, but I was too stressed to manage anything more than shallow attempts. I was reacting like a father when I needed to think like the Memphis detective I’d been a year ago; get my mental and ultimately physical reactions in line with the training I’d practiced as a fighter pilot. A simple exercise in centering like I’d exercised while flying brought me to a place of calculated calm.

  Where would Tempe go? I turned on the visor light to look at my notes. I had her address, the old Harmony plantation near Lightning Bayou.

  So the bottle—what did she call that thing—ann fora? belonged to her brother. He lived with her. Maybe she was covering for him. Or, maybe they were in on it together. I could be there in three minutes.

  Tempe

  I parked in the driveway of the brick home and waited until Jordie gathered her stuff. She swept her long brown hair behind her ear.

  “Are your grandparents home?” I asked. It didn’t look like it but some folks were on the reclusive side and didn’t make a lot of noise.

  “They’re over at the mall doing their five mile run.” So much for them being recluses. “But I have a key.” She held it up and shook it. “Thanks for the lift—and the malt, Tempe.”

  “No, problem, Jordie. You were the best part of my day.”

  She tilted her head, “Must have been a pretty bad day then.”

  I smiled, “Oh, I don’t know, maybe you’re just selling yourself short, girlfriend.”

  She started to turn away, then turned back, biting her lip. “Would you like to come to my basketball game Saturday?”

  “I’d love to. Night game?”

  She grinned, flashing that beautiful smile. Probably had more than one boy trailing after her. “Six-thirty sharp. But there will be stuff going on all afternoon, if you want to come early.”

  “I’ll be there.” If I’m not in jail.

  “Great. See ya. Thanks again for the ride.”

  I couldn’t get past the feeling that I’d seen her before.