by Jean Rabe
“We have that Skype interview,” Piper said softly to Oren. Sylvia D and Esme continued to talk about books. “Would you show Basil and his wife around the department? See if they have any questions about the county. I’ll take the interview solo.”
Oren nodded, and whispered, “You should offer him the job.”
“Yeah,” she whispered back. “No question. But whether he’ll say yes—”
Piper slipped into her office and opened the laptop. Time to interview Jefferson Polanger, see if Teegan was right about the Yooper accent. Jefferson probably would not be bored in Spencer County, and would fit in easier with the stark white population.
She fit in better in the Army; the life had suited her.
But maybe fitting in didn’t have to be a requirement.
Maybe Spencer County could land that round peg from the big bad city.
32
Thirty-Two
Jefferson Polanger hadn’t impressed her. She liked Kevan Melkan though, and so did Oren. The retired state police officer would work as their second choice. The required three interviews finished and no one else in the application queue she wanted to bring in, Piper called Basil Meredith on his cell phone and discovered he’d just finished his interview in Santa Claus.
She offered him the job, crossing the fingers of her good hand. He said because she was in a hurry to fill the post, he’d let her know Wednesday or Thursday; Esme was warming to Spencer County. They’d talk it out on the drive back to Chicago.
Thank you Sylvia D for bringing in that stack of romance novels.
It was now 2:30. Piper would spend a few hours researching the members of the old fart’s club and the high school students who helped them, get ready for tomorrow afternoon’s genealogy meeting. Use the county records and newspapers, go “old school” maybe. And from there she’d figure out who to target for search warrants for computers and bank accounts—warrants were specific. Piper needed access to the students’ computers to discover who had the software, the wherewithal, and who hopefully had left some digital tracks regarding hacking Mark Thresher and sending her the threatening email. She knew she’d need enough evidence to be granted the warrants, and she’d need to do it quietly and quickly so any stolen money didn’t get transferred and the computers didn’t get wiped. Could more than one student be involved? Could it be a club activity? Zeke the Geek had honestly been surprised by it all.
Sylvia D had packed up her signed books and was getting the desk ready for Teegan to come on shift at three.
“Sheriff Blackwell!” Sylvia D’s shrill voice cut down the hallway. “Harlan Crook.” A pause. “Attorney Harlan Cook called while you had that Melkan interview. Said he has time at three to talk to you about Mr. Thresher. Said you should come to him. That Mr. Melkan that you brought in seemed nice, Sheriff. But you should hire that Basil Meredith. Tall drink of water, that one. Get his wife to move here.”
Piper decided to walk to Cook’s office.
She’d never met Harlan Cook, but she’d heard a lot about him. Oren had told her the attorney was “as close to an ambulance chaser as you could get without being run over.” His office was across from the courthouse, next to a tavern, which seemed fitting as he had a reputation for defending people charged with DUI.
He was slick, Teegan had said, explaining that he got a lot of the drunkards off without them losing their licenses—at least for the first or second offense. In that respect he’d forced both Rockport police officers and Spencer County sheriff deputies to take greater care when making DUI arrests, to not rely on an informal breathalyzer test given in the back of the car, to wait that required twenty-minute stretch where the offender was observed not drinking before a court-admissible test was administered.
Maybe the problem with Harlan Cook was that officers and deputies didn’t like his clientele.
The building was old and well maintained, narrow with a reception area in the front manned by a doughy-faced woman with a mirthless smile, a conference table in the middle, and Harlan’s office at the back. It was all paneled dark wood with darker wainscoting, brass coat hooks, and beveled glass-fronted bookcases.
Piper guessed Harlan to be in his mid- to late-forties. Clean-shaven, angular face, short black hair with flecks of gray at the temples. She thought he’d present well in a courtroom, but that obviously wasn’t where he’d been today. He had on faded blue jeans, a forest green polo shirt, and a denim sport coat was draped over a spare chair.
He gestured her to sit across from his desk.
“Sheriff.”
“Mr. Cook. Nice to meet you.”
He smiled. It didn’t make him look more handsome, it made him look smug and unfriendly.
“I want to talk about Mark Thresher,” Piper started. “I found no living relatives looking through his genealogy notes and—”
“The Shark didn’t have any relatives. He’d outlived them all.” He touched a button on his phone even though his assistant was less than twenty feet away. “Emily, bring that file back please.” To Piper, “Coffee?”
“I never refuse coffee.”
Emily brought a pot and two cups and set a file in front of Cook. “You got a call from Hank Shepard,” she told him. “About the DUI hearing tomorrow.”
“I’ll call him back.”
Piper found the coffee good, but not close to the Dark Italian. “I was hoping to find a relative so we could get someone to go through the house, watch it, change the locks. Our deputies are patrolling but—”
“Not a single relative,” Cook repeated. His voice was strong and each word separate like staccato music notes to be clearly understood. She figured he’d play well to a jury. “The Shark said it was just him, the last Thresher. But you never know, I guess. I’ll be posting some public notices, some distant blood that he didn’t know about might surface and put in a claim or contest it. But not likely. It’s a solid will. Creditors have six months after publication of the legal notices to file a claim, though I doubt The Shark had any debts. He always paid me upfront. I never once had to send a bill. I’m administering the estate, and I think it will be simple, less than a year before everything is tied up with a big satin bow. But you never know if someone will challenge it, and disputes can drag it out.”
“The coroner will be calling. Did Mr. Thresher specify what he wanted done—”
“I called Dr. Neufeld this morning and left a message. All of that is stipulated in The Shark’s will. He’ll be buried next to his wife. He’d even paid the funeral home for everything in advance several years ago.” He took a drink of coffee and held the cup. “He’d been into my office a few times in the past seven or eight days, fine-tuning his will, complaining to me about his bank account. He told me he’d been robbed and that you were going to get his money back.”
“My intention.”
“That’s good.” Harlan took another sip. “Local organizations—including your department—will benefit from that money.”
Piper sat up straighter. “He put the Sheriff’s Department in his will?”
“Said you needed a couple of drones.” Harlan smiled again, the expression a little warmer. “He liked you.”
“Wow. Drones.”
Holding the cup in one hand he flipped open the folder and pulled out a thin stack of legal-size papers. “Read this.”
Piper saw a coaster on the edge of the desk and put her cup on it. The coaster was leather and imprinted with the scales of justice. HARLAN COOK ATTORNEY OF LAW in all caps beneath it.
The will started out with the usual,
“I, Mr. Mark Henry Thresher, residing in Hatfield, Spencer County, in the State of Indiana, United States of America, being of sound and disposing mind and memory, do hereby declare this to be my Final Will and Testament, revoking all prior Wills and Codicils.” Then it went on to recite his marital status (widowed), descendants (none), predeceased family members (his spouse, Lucille), executor (Harlan Cook), and provisions for the payment of debt. Piper smil
ed at the language, “I do not have any debt. But Harlan says I need this language in here. Except for liens and encumbrances placed on property as security for the repayment of a loan or debt, I direct that all debts and expenses owed by my estate should be paid out in the manner provided for by the laws of the State of Indiana.”
The legal text went on, and Piper quickly read it. She skimmed over most of the boilerplate about waiving any required bond for the executor, paying estate taxes, proper investments for the estate, incontestability of bequests, and the like. Finally, she came to specific gifts.
“I give, devise and bequeath my land, house, garage, and all the furnishings and contents, including my collection of vintage cars and motorcycles, to my friend, Piper Blackwell of Rockport, Indiana. Furthermore, I beseech her to care for Camaro and Marmalade, my beloved companions, until the time of their natural passing. They are to remain in their home.”
“Oh.” She sat back and felt her stomach rise into her throat. “Oh, God.”
“The Shark apparently thought a great deal of you.” The attorney appeared to study her. “I’ve been to his place. It’s a very nice house.”
“I— I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do about this. I don’t—”
“Know what to do? Well, I understand that you’ve been living above a garage. I’d move into your new house, Sheriff Blackwood. The Shark was basically debt free, but I still have to wait those six months to discover if there are creditors, the extent of them, to close everything. And it is my responsibility as executor to sell property if necessary to cover those debts. That’s just the law. But I knew The Shark. The house and all those fine vehicles are yours. You’ll assume property taxes and all of that. I have a copy of his previous tax bills. Keep reading please.”
“I give, devise and bequeath the sum of eighty thousand dollars to the Spencer County Sheriff’s Department to be spent precisely in the following manner:
•Twenty thousand dollars for the purchase, training, and equipping of a police dog, which should be named Thresher
•Fourteen thousand dollars for the purchase and operation of two or more drones
•Five thousand and five hundred dollars for the purchase and operation of fifteen or more body cameras for Spencer County Sheriff Deputies
•Four thousand dollars for video surveillance equipment for the exterior of the Spencer County Sheriff’s Department
•One hundred dollars for the purchase of a Cuisinart DCC-3200 14-Cup Programmable Coffeemaker, available on Amazon, here is the link—
•Thirty-six thousand and four hundred dollars for a specially-designated fund to exclusively cover the upkeep, repairs, and replacement of the above-mentioned equipment, and for dog food.”
Piper fought for breath. “I didn’t ask him for this. I didn’t want him to—”
“The Shark told me if his money and property outlived him, if he didn’t end up ‘in one of them damn nursing homes,’ that he wanted everything put to good use, and with someone he respected. Like I said before, he thought a lot of you.”
She read the last of it.
“I give, devise and bequeath the residuary of my estate in equal parts to the following organizations:
•Spencer County Kennel Club
•Spencer County Garden Club
•Santa Claus American Legion
•Friends of Lincoln
•Lion’s Club of Spencer County
•Kiwanis, Optimists Club of Spencer County
•Spencer County Masons
•Spencer County Hazardous Waste Taskforce
•Hatfield Recreational Committee
•First Baptist Church of Rockport.”
“I hope you can find who stole The Shark’s money, Sheriff Blackwell, get it returned to the estate. It would certainly benefit those organizations.”
“I promised him I would,” she said numbly. “I’ll fix it. I told him I’d fix it.”
33
Thirty-Three
Piper didn’t go directly back to the office. Her arm throbbed and she stepped in time with the pulse of pain. She walked to the park and sat on the bench where she’d met Mark Thresher seven days ago.
During those seven days she’d promised more than once to find the thief and return his money.
During those seven days he’d rewritten his will and gifted her that beautiful house.
And the vintage cars.
And the old motorcycles.
And an old golden retriever and an orange tabby cat.
Seven days.
She leaned back and tipped her head up, looking through gaps in the branches and noticing the sky had clouded over. The air smelled like rain was coming. That would be fitting, she thought. It had rained the day she met him.
It should rain right now, hide her tears.
The Sheriff of Spencer County shouldn’t cry in public.
But she cried anyway, for Mark Thresher and the lost opportunity to know him better, mostly because she hadn’t been able to “fix it” while he was breathing, that he wasn’t able to see justice done. Last night she’d slept fitfully, wondering if she really could “fix it.” Now she knew damn well that she could—and would. Piper hadn’t backed down from anything, not at Fort Campbell, not during any of the deadly downrange assignments she’d fought through in Iraq, and certainly not here.
Piper had the bluff to herself. Kids in school, people working. An elderly couple was on the sidewalk, the man using two canes and reminding her of Mark. They kept going and crossed the street and Piper lost sight of them. She scanned the cars at the edges. No metallic gray Celica. No silver or gray anything. Where the hell was the car? And who the hell was driving it? She should get back to the office. Try to ferret out something on the car, the high school students, and the members of the old fart’s club. The bones, too. There was that to consider. Or had she decided the bones were Oren’s to solve?
She stayed rooted to the bench and let the breeze tease the hair she swore she’d get cut.
One week since she’d met Mark and tripped on the leg bone under the trees.
The bones of a nine-year-old boy that Oren was certain had been Neal Robert Huffman. Gut instinct, he’d told her.
Neal Robert Huffman’s bones and a ten-inch section of rusted barbed wire; four marbles; two pieces of a thin black leather belt; a curl of brown leather with two punched holes that had been a hatband; five copper rivets from blue jeans; a handful of coins; seven small black buttons from a shirt; three slightly larger brown buttons from the jeans; a brass belt buckle that had been awarded to a paperboy in Arizona; a toy badge; a toy gun; and a coil of rotting rope that was partly nylon, filthy and stinky and knotted to form a loop. Neal Robert Huffman had been playing sheriff on Halloween.
So if he hadn’t drowned on the raft, who killed him, strangled him, and buried his body in this park? And why?
And why hadn’t Neal Robert Huffman been wearing shoes?
“Where were the damn shoes?”
Her phone chirped and she almost ignored it. Her father.
“Hey, Dad.” She wanted to tell him about the house she’d just inherited. But that would be for a longer conversation, maybe over dinner tonight.
“I got the job, Punkin—you’re talking to the soon-to-be Police Chief of Santa Claus. They called me this afternoon. Said they had to interview three candidates to meet their requirements. Just got the third out of the way apparently, and called me right after. And they met my terms.”
“Terms?”
“That I could keep Wrinkles in my office. I can’t leave him at home all day. He’ll be a great police dog.”
The Spencer County Sheriff’s Department would be getting a police dog, a real one, not a ten-year-old pug more interested in sniffing for table scraps than sniffing for drugs. Still, she smiled at that. She was glad he could keep Wrinkles close at hand. The pug had become his constant shadow.
“Congratulations, Dad. I knew you’d get the job
.” Actually, she thought Basil might give him competition. And she was glad that wasn’t the case. Maybe she could get the round peg after all. “We should celebrate.”
“I bought three steaks. I’ll grill them. Let me know what time you’ll be done today.”
Three steaks. Good thinking. She’d call Nang and—
“One steak for me. One steak for you. And one steak to split between Wrinkles and Camaro. The golden retriever’s a good dog. I think I’ll keep him in the office, too. They’re both pretty sluggish, age to them.”
“I’m keeping him, Camaro,” she said. There was a big dog door at Thresher’s house, and Camaro could go in and out as he pleased while she was at work. “And the cat. I’m keeping Marmalade.”
“So you’re staying,” Paul Blackwell said. “In Spencer County. A dog, that means you’re staying.”
And a house. I’ve a house, too.
Had he realized she’d entertained returning to the Army? She’d never mentioned it to him. But he was good at reading people.
“It’s an old dog, Dad.” She wiped the tears off her face. The clouds overhead were thickening. “Listen, I’m not working at the office late. I’m going to bring some stuff home to go through. So an early dinner? Grill before it starts raining? I’ll be there by five.”
Piper hung up and made a move to get up. The phone again.
“Dr. Neufeld?”
“I just finished the autopsy on Mr. Thresher,” the coroner said. Her voice sounded tinny, like she was using a soup can to speak through. “I want to meet with you tomorrow, bright and early. Talk about his autopsy, and one I did on Alfonso Lattimer. I almost hadn’t caught that case. Alfonso was a nursing home resident, ninety-two, but he had been pretty mobile, had kept a car, drove to restaurants and his club meetings. He’d died in that car. Unattended death, I caught it.”