Oil & Vinegar

by Mairsile Leabhair

  “She was…” Another wave of tears swelled up, and I buried my head in my hands again. And again, Candace held me while I cried.

  “Oh, dear. Oh, honey. I’m so sorry,” Candace said, holding me tighter.

  Finally, after I regained control again, I leaned back and accepted more tissues from Hettie.

  “You must be hungry,” Candace stated. “Lunch will be ready in a few minutes.”

  She was right, I was getting hungry. “Thank you, Candace.” She left the bedroom and I turned to Hettie. “Um… where am I and how did I get here?”

  “Oh, yeah. About that. You’re in Miami at my parents’ house. I knew you were afraid to fly, but since the paramedic gave you a shot for the pain and you were asleep anyway, I called in a favor and got you on a police helicopter. It was the quickest, securest way to get you out of the state.”

  I flashed on that truck speeding toward us and Hettie pulling me out of the car. It got pretty hazy after that. “Oh, Hettie. Your father’s car?”

  “It’s a little banged up but not a total loss. It’s evidence in an investigation now, so the police towed it to the impound.”

  “How did they know where we were, Hettie?”

  “I was asking myself that same question. The only explanation is that we have a leak in the department. That’s another reason I brought you here. No one else knows where you are, not even the deputies. Not even Krauss.”

  “No, Hettie. Your family. It’s too dangerous.”

  She shook her head. “My dad is a retired Lieutenant of the Homicide Division. I broke a cardinal law and told him about you as soon as we got here. He assured me that I did the right thing.”

  “But your mom? Does she know?”

  “Of course. You can’t keep secrets from a cop’s wife. So, don’t worry, okay?”

  “Okay,” I sniffed. “I’ll try not to.”

  “Listen, I’ve taken every precaution. I never put my parents’ information on my employee records, so no one knows where they live. You’re safe here. I pulled the batteries on both of our cell phones before we flew out here. And until we know who’s chasing you, it would be best if you didn’t speak to anyone other than me or my parents, okay?”

  “I understand. There’s no one I could have called anyway.” I guess it could be worse. I would be dead if not for Hettie. “I want to help you, Hettie. Please?”

  She placed the laptop on the bed and then sat down. She reached over and petted Bubbles across the back. “I got a text from Krauss yesterday—”

  “Yesterday? And you’re just now telling me?”

  “Yeah, well, you were kind of out of it yesterday.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  She pushed her unruly hair out of her eyes. I didn’t think she’d brushed her hair since we were in college together. Still, it was a good look for her. Roguish, wild, endearing.

  “Anyway, Krauss said the FBI…” Her face contorted, and she tilted her head to the side, closing her eyes. She sneezed, almost silently, three times rapidly. Sniffling, she said, “Sorry. I forgot and petted that damn cat.”

  I pursed my lips to keep from smiling. I felt bad that Bubbles made her sneeze, but the way her face scrunched up was just so cute. Hettie was anything but cute. Strong, handsome, charismatic, beautiful. Oh…

  Clearing my throat, I said, “Bless you.”

  “Thanks. Anyway, the FBI has been looking into the embezzlement claims your father talked about and believe it goes higher than just the bank president.”

  “Higher? What’s higher than the bank president?”

  “A state senator.”

  “Really?”

  “They don’t have any hard evidence yet, but it’s looking that way.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Christopher Peterson.” She opened her laptop and tapped a few keys, then turned it around and showed me a picture of a man. “Ring a bell?”

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Did your parents have dinners or parties that they would have invited him to?”

  “No, but they went to a few of them.”

  “Did you go with them?”

  Nodding, I frowned. “Only once, at my mother’s insistence. Last year at the New Year’s Eve party. It was horrendous. Too many people in one room.”

  “Do you remember if Peterson was there?”

  Remembering the party, where the champagne flowed as freely as the women’s gowns, everyone talked at once, and old ladies pinched my cheek, I shuddered uncomfortably. Then I remembered him.

  “Oh, my God. Peterson was there and he and my Dad’s boss, Robert Schmidt, were talking to my father. Dad looked really angry. There was another man with them, but I don’t know who he was.”

  “Angry about what?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t close enough to hear their conversation. I was sitting in the vestibule, waiting to go home.”

  “Did you talk to anyone at the party?”

  “Not if I could help it.”

  She cocked her lip and chuckled.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not being very helpful, am I?”

  “You’ve been very helpful. I think that the guy who ran us off the road is not the same guy who killed your parents.”

  “How do we find out who did?”

  She ran her fingers through her hair again. “By finding the proof your father said he had.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Lunch is ready,” Candace called.

  “The first thing you can do is eat something and get your strength back.”

  “And then?” I pressed.

  “And then I need to study the crime scene pictures I printed out this morning.”

  “I can help with that,” I said.

  She shook her head and frowned. “Are you crazy?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  Chapter Nine

  U.S. Marshal Hettie Quinn

  Dad was already seated at the kitchen table when Amanda and I entered the room. He stood up and waited as I pulled out the chair and helped Amanda take her seat. Always the gentleman.

  “Amanda, this is my father, Henry. Dad, this is Amanda Sanders.”

  “Good to meet you, kid,” Dad said, holding out his hand.

  Dad, at sixty-two, was five years older than Mom. I’d always thought he was handsome, with his two-tone gray hair in the classic pompadour fashion, his brooding eyes, and quick smile. His voice was gravelly from years of smoking. Thank God, he finally quit. I’d inherited my big shoulders, long legs and mousy brown hair from him. I’d also learned all the best cuss words from him. In spite of that, he was the smartest, bravest man I knew.

  Amanda hesitated, putting her fingers to her lips. She looked at me as if to ask if he were safe. I held my breath, hoping that she wouldn’t panic.

  “It’s okay, he’s one of the good guys,” I whispered to her.

  “Yes, of course. It’s nice to meet you, sir,” she said, shaking his hand. “Thank you for having me in your home.”

  Good girl. I knew you could do it.

  Mom placed a bowl of stew in front of Amanda, then went back to the counter for the sandwiches. “Amanda, would you like something to drink?” Mom asked as she set the finger sandwiches in the middle of the table. “We have coffee, tea, and diet soda.”

  “A soda, please,” Amanda answered.

  I pulled a couple of sodas out of the fridge, one for her and one me, and set them on the table. “Dad?”

  “Coffee, please,” he said, scarfing down a finger sandwich. I poured him a cup of strong black coffee, the only way Mom would make it, and brought it to him. Then I helped myself to a bowl of stew and returned to the table.

  Mom placed a bowl of stew and a bottle of ketchup in front of him. He poured a generous helping into his stew, then offered it to Amanda. She had a bemused smile on her face as she shook her head.

  “Pass it this way, please, Dad.” He held the ketchup out, and I reached across the table f
or it.

  “You know, I never get tired of seeing you two ruin my stew,” Mom said, both chastising and smirking at the same time.

  “It brings out the flavor of the meat, honey,” Dad explained again for the thousandth time. He winked at Amanda, who smiled shyly.

  “Plus, it covers up the taste of those nasty carrots,” I added.

  Amanda snickered as she gingerly took a bite of her sandwich.

  “Amanda, after lunch, I’d like to change your bandage again, if that’s all right?” Mom asked, sitting down at the table with her own bowl of stew and a glass of tea.

  Mom had changed Amanda’s bandage last night while Amanda slept and reported that the wound had stopped bleeding and there were no signs of infection. Mom was a part-time registered nurse at Healthstone Community Hospital, which was another reason why I’d brought Amanda here.

  Amanda wiped her lips with her napkin. “Oh. That’s very kind of you, but…”

  “Mom’s a nurse, Amanda. It’s the nature of the beast,” I quipped, pleased when Amanda laughed.

  Her cheeks were a healthy pink, her lips a plum red, but her eyes, the window to her heart, were dark and sad. I knew it would take time. I knew she had barely begun grieving for her parents and that she was still grieving for her wife. I knew all this, but I couldn’t help but wish that I… Ah, hell. I don’t know what I wish.

  “Well, in that case, I would be grateful for your help, ma’am,” Amanda responded.

  Mom carried the conversation during lunch, asking Amanda if she had any allergies, particularly to certain foods. I had a feeling Mom was making a list for the dinner menu. Amanda seemed to take it all in stride and even joined in when the conversation segued to my cat allergy.

  “I’ve never heard anyone sneeze that fast so many times,” she elaborated with a smile. Then she turned to me and patted my hand. “I am sorry that Bubbles makes you sneeze. I’ll try to keep her away from you from now on.”

  “You don’t need to,” I assured her. “It’s not that bad, and besides, where Bubbles goes, you go, and where you go, I go.” My mother arched her eyebrow at me, and I shrugged. “You know, to keep her safe.”

  “Uh-huh,” Mom mumbled playfully where I could hear her.

  At least I hoped I was the only one who heard that. Mom fancied herself a matchmaker and she was gearing up to make trouble for me. That’s what she did when I brought Tammy from the accounting department home to meet the folks. Any interest Tammy may have had in me was completely extinguish by the time we left the house. I’d better have to have a little chat with Mom. Amanda was my protectee and I wouldn’t cross that line, even if she did fascinate me.

  Mom escorted Amanda back to the bedroom while I washed the dishes.

  “So, got any leads?” Dad asked.

  We had not had a chance to talk in-depth about the case since we got in late last night. He knew the basics, but I was anxious to have him look at the evidence and give me his opinion. When I was a teenager, I would visit Dad at the police station and listen in on the cases he investigated as a detective. Sometimes, he would bring his work home and let me look over the file. Mother always protested, saying I was too young for such graphic pictures, but they didn’t bother me. If my father was interested in them then so was I.

  “Nothing solid, but my CD said the FBI was following leads that included a state senator. She sent me the whole report, if uh…”

  I had called Krauss before we boarded the helicopter and filled her in on what happened. I told her that she had a mole in her ranks. Hell, it could be her. I asked her to email me the police report on the guy in the pickup. She wanted me to bring Amanda back, but I had another idea. I told her I was going to keep my protectee alive my way. Then I hung up and severed all ties with the U.S. Marshals. Like Amanda, I would disappear. Not just from the witness protection division, but my own division as well. I’d probably lose my job over it, but going underground was the only way to keep Amanda safe.

  “Yeah, let’s take a look at it,” Dad said, walking toward the home office.

  I wasn’t done washing the dishes but I left them soaking and followed him. We went into the office and I closed the door.

  “Here is the crime scene report,” I said, handing Dad the paper. “And this is the autopsy on Amanda’s parents. The photos from the scene are on an SD card.” I had made a backup copy for safe keeping.

  “Let me look at the photos first,” he said, sitting down in front of the monitor.

  I leaned over him and inserted the card into the slot, then I clicked on the folder, opening the first in a series of photos. It was Amanda’s father sitting in the recliner, two bullet wounds in his chest.

  “The autopsy said—”

  “Wait,” Dad said, shaking his head. “Just let me look at the pictures first so I can form my own impression.”

  I had forgotten that Dad preferred to look with his own eyes first, then read the reports.

  “Get me a pad and pencil.”

  I rifled through the desk drawer and found a pencil and some paper. Dad immediately made a note and moved on to the next photo. I could never read Dad’s handwriting, so I would just have to be patient until he was ready to sum it up for me.

  Five minutes later, he was looking at the kitchen photos. “How do you enlarge this thing?” he asked, looking for the mouse.

  Mom had bought a new touchscreen laptop, and Dad apparently hadn’t learned how to use it yet. I leaned over and, with two fingers, enlarged the photo.

  “What’s that thing on the floor?”

  “It looks like a kitchen knife,” I answered.

  He made another note and clicked to the next picture. While Dad looked at the pictures, I read the report. The only thing on the kitchen floor was that knife. Forensics said the knife had Mrs. Yarbrough’s fingerprints on it and that was it. No blood or particulates other than the celery she had been cutting up. There was blood splatter on the upper cabinets near she must have stood, and a pool of blood on the floor where she had fallen. A shiver ran down my spine when I remembered that Connie was the one who found her right after she had been killed. It was hard to think of her as Amanda when I was visualizing what Connie saw.

  Mr. Yarbrough was shot point blank. Forensics found two 9mm slugs embedded in the floor behind the recliner, which said that the killer was standing directly in front of him. Mrs. Yarbrough was standing at the island counter in the kitchen cutting celery. The bullet that killed her had lodged in the stovetop behind her. It was too torn up to identify, but they could gauge the approximate height of the killer by the trajectory of the bullet. Mrs. Yarbrough was five foot three, making the killer at least five eight if he fired holding the gun at arm’s length, and the bullet was deflected when it hit her skull. I was waiting on the autopsy of the truck driver but I was pretty sure he’d been six feet at least, which meant he was not the one who killed the Yarbrough’s.

  Connie’s statement said that she had come home earlier than usual and was outside talking to a neighbor. What I couldn’t figure out was why the hell the killer would park in plain sight, and…

  “He was hiding inside!”

  “Who was hiding inside?” Amanda asked from the doorway. “Oh, God. Is that…”

  Dad slammed the laptop shut, but not quick enough to keep Amanda… Connie from seeing her mother’s bloody body.

  “Conn… Amanda, you shouldn’t be in here,” I barked, putting my hands up to usher her out.

  “You’re talking about my mom and dad, Hettie. I can help. Please, I want to help.”

  “Let her help,” Dad said, waving her in.

  What he couldn’t know was how she reacted under stress and there was nothing more stressful than seeing your parents murdered.

  “And for my sanity’s sake, let’s call her by her birth name, Connie, while she’s here,” Dad insisted.

  It broke another WITSEC rule, but it would cut down on confusion. And if I couldn’t trust my parents, who could I trust?

/>   “Connie, may I ask you some questions?” Dad waved a hand at the settee for her to take a seat.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, sitting down across from him.

  He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “I haven’t read the report yet, so if I repeat something you’ve already answered just bear with me, all right?”

  Dad was building her confidence like a pro.

  “Yes, sir,” she repeated.

  She seemed a little nervous, but I could tell she was determined to fight the panic simmering on the inside.

  “Did you go anywhere that morning?”

  “Yes. I go to the cemetery every Sunday to visit my wife’s grave.”

  “Did anything unusual happen while you were there?” I asked.

  She glanced at me and smiled. “Well, a ladybug landed on my hand.”

  I ran my hand through my hair. This is going nowhere.

  “Did you see or hear anyone?” Dad asked with more patience than I had.

  “Yes. My old boss. His parents were buried in the same cemetery Meredith was.”

  “Had you seen him there before?” I asked curiously. When dealing with the undesirables, you learn to ask the curious questions, even though I was sure there was no connection between Connie’s boss and her parents’ murder. It was just an occupational hazard.

  “No, that was the first time,” she responded.

  “Is he the reason you came back to the house early?” I asked.

  “Yes. He had a position available if I was ready to go back to work. I decided that I was so I hurry home to tell Mom and Dad and...” Her eyes misted and her lips trembled.

  “It’s all right, Connie,” Dad assured her. “You’re doing very well. Can you tell me what happened next?”

  “Well, I told my parents about my decision, then I went to empty the cat litter. Dad asked me to take the trash can to the curb because Mondays were pickup days.”

  “Is that routine?” Dad asked.

  “Pretty much. I mean, sometimes, he takes the can out himself. It depends on football.”

  I dipped my head sideways as if chasing down an answer to my confusion. “Football?”

  “If his favorite team is playing, Dad doesn’t move from his recliner,” she explained.