Deadly Descent

by Charlotte Hinger

  Abruptly, I turned off the stove, went to the living room, picked up the extension.

  “I’m on now too, Elizabeth,” I said.

  “Well, hi. Dad just told me about your terrible day and I was telling him about this wonderful subliminal tape that improves memory and it’s full of techniques…”

  “Elizabeth, a valuable letter was stolen from our courthouse. Got that? Stolen. I did not misplace it.”

  Silence on her end. I had never spoken sharply to any of Keith’s children before. I was overdue.

  Then she came back with sweet reason. Handling me. Voice low and pleasant. “I just thought, Lottie, with all your work focusing on the past, not requiring a high degree of alertness, it would be easy for you to slip into abstracted ways without realizing it. We’ve all heard the cliché about the absent-minded professor.”

  “That’s what it is, Elizabeth. A cliché.”

  I hung up, leaving Keith to finish the conversation with his darling daughter. Furiously, I stormed past him and concentrated on the hamburger.

  “Talk to you later, Elizabeth,” said Keith, glancing at me sharply.

  I slapped the plates onto the table, nuked some vegetables, and slid a loaf of bread, still in the sack, by Keith’s place.

  “Supper’s on,” I said coldly.

  “Lottie!”

  Angry that he would address me like a parent trying to reprimand a child, I stood with my arms crossed and glared.

  “There’s something you two women need to know. I don’t do cat fights.”

  “You could have stuck up for me.”

  “I did,” he said solemnly. “If you’ll think back to before you got on the phone, I told her you didn’t lose that letter.”

  “Why did you bring it up at all?”

  “You know it’ll be all over town by tomorrow. And in the paper Thursday, since you reported it to the sheriff. So I thought she should hear it from us. Me. Besides, she had just lost a custody case and was feeling rotten. Inadequate.”

  “So knowing I had been knocked flat too was going to make her feel better somehow?”

  He looked stricken. “You’re right, I was wrong. I know Elizabeth never misses a chance to give you a hard time. And I give you the credit for not fanning the flames. I hate this kind of thing, but you’re my wife, Lottie. I’m going to stick up for you. Unless you’re dead wrong. Don’t you know that by now?”

  “Oh, Keith, I’m sorry.” I ran over to him and he kissed my trembling mouth. “I’m sorry I took this out on you.”

  He hugged me hard. “It was weird to see you lose control. Maturity doesn’t have much to do with age, sweetheart. You’re old beyond your years,” he said. “Hate to put the burden on you, but if you can find it in your heart to cut Elizabeth a little slack, I’d appreciate it. She’s under more stress than usual right now because a number of her cases have involved abused children.”

  I didn’t lose control, I thought. The lady needed to be told off. I did it on purpose. “I’ll make every effort to keep the peace with Elizabeth.”

  ***

  That night when I curled up against his broad back, I could not sleep. I stiffened whenever I recalled Elizabeth’s jab that my work didn’t require a high degree of alertness. What utter nonsense! I felt like grabbing her by the hair and forcing her to watch me for a day.

  When I did manage to put her words from my mind and was about to doze off, I jerked awake, still tormented by the theft and burdened by my promise to Judy to look into her mother’s death.

  I had to be in a position to ask better questions. And fast. The way came to me after two restless hours. A way about as real-time, real-life as it gets. It would show Elizabeth, too. I knew at once it would be better not to inform Keith until after it was a done deal.

  I smiled before I drifted into the deep soundless sleep of the innocent and the ignorant. The sleep of a woman who thinks God’s in his heaven and all’s right with the world. The sleep of a woman who in her heart of hearts doesn’t really believe bad things happen to good people.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Can I help you, Lottie?”

  “I’m here about the ad.”

  Sam Abbott looked at me blankly.

  “Ad?”

  “In the paper. The one asking for volunteers to become deputies?”

  “Yes?”

  Sam was not a stupid person, but he really did not understand.

  “I want to become a deputy.”

  He blinked slowly. He reached toward an ash tray for his pipe. He opened his desk drawer, took out a little zippered pouch, got up, walked over to a roll of paper towels, and ripped one off the holder.

  I could feel my cheeks growing hot and red. If he thought a little bit of silence was enough to scare me off, he had another thing coming.

  He came back to the desk. He smoothed the paper towel, steadied the pipe on the paper, shook tobacco into the bowl, and tamped it down firmly. He creased the paper and shook the leftover tobacco back into the pouch. He took his time putting it back into the drawer. He puffed patiently and steadily on the stem.

  He blew a series of rings into the air. I out-waited him.

  “Keith know you’re here?”

  “No,” I said, keeping my voice neutral, stung by his faint, patient smile.

  “I think you should talk this over with him first.”

  “No need, Sam. He understands women making their own decisions.”

  There was a flash of quick amusement in his eyes. He was plenty smart enough to pick up on the implied rebuke.

  “Okay,” he said mildly. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why would you want such a miserable stinking job?”

  “You need me, I know you do. If I may speak frankly?”

  He nodded, waved his pipe.

  “I heard about some of questions Betty Central asked the night Zelda was killed. It’s not going to do you any good to have an officer of the law talk to anyone like that.”

  He gave me a look. There was more than acknowledgment in his eyes. Something closer to despair. I had hit upon a sore point indeed, but he did not give me the satisfaction of agreeing with me.

  “There’s got to be things that come up. Crimes against women. Rape, incest, where you need all the good help you can get.”

  With a bitter glance, his head bobbed in curt agreement. His pipe had gone out: he reached for his supply of matches, patiently coaxed it back to life.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he said again. “Why you would want to do this? It’s a dirty little job, and you’ll know more about the people in this town than you’ve ever wanted to know, far more than what’s good for you.”

  He waited.

  “No, the question is, do you want to hire me? That’s the question I’m interested in.”

  He paused and looked at me hard. “Got a hidden agenda, Lottie?”

  I swallowed hard. “All right. Maybe I do have a special reason. It has to do with Zelda St. John’s death.”

  “What about it?”

  Sam would have to know. I told him about Judy asking me to look into it.

  “And you know you need decent help with this, Sam. Why not me? I know more about research than anyone else you could hope to find. I’m an historian. Dead people are my specialty. That’s what you’ve got here. A dead person. I need the authority to ask questions I would have a hard time asking as the director of the historical society.”

  He let out a long sigh, touched his hand to his forehead.

  “You’ll get excellent reports,” I coaxed.

  He almost smiled.

  “Now it’s your turn, Sam.”

  He quirked an eyebrow.

  “I answered a question for you, now you answer a question for me. Why would you not want to hire me? As you’ve pointed out, people aren’t exactly beating down the door for this job.”

  “No, they’re not,” he said flatly. “The truth, Lottie?”

  “What else?�
��

  “You’re too elite. You don’t belong out here. You belong in an ivory tower. You don’t fit in. You’re an outsider. Law enforcement is a dirty business, and you’re not the kind to get your hands dirty.”

  So that was how they saw me, the people in this town. I looked at him wide-eyed. Stoic. If he expected tears, he would be disappointed. Then it dawned on me I had just passed my first test with flying colors.

  He was a cunning old bastard. I wouldn’t underestimate him again.

  “I do belong out here. I’m quite capable of getting my hands dirty. Sometimes people will talk more to an outsider than they will to someone they’ve known all their lives. The stranger on the bus thing. I’m not asking for a full-time job, Sam. I’m asking for a part-time deputy job so I can help find out who murdered Zelda St. John.”

  “Do you plan to just pop in and out?”

  “Yes, of course. Why not? Part-time. That’s all I want. I come with skills. You would have to train someone else in report writing, interview techniques. Stuff I already know how to do.”

  There was an interested glint in his eyes.

  “The county has no money, right?”

  He nodded wearily. I was clearly wearing him down.

  “This investigation is going to put a terrible strain on the county’s resources. You need all the cheap help you can get.”

  “You still have to have training, Lottie, and we’re broke. Police departments are being sued over inadequate training.”

  “No problem. I’ll pay my own way to seminars and teach other people when I get back.”

  There was a glint of interest in his eyes.

  “I’m physically fit,” I said quickly. “I work out. I’ll take classes in self-defense.”

  He drew a deep breath, leaned back in his rickety swivel chair, put his locked arms behind his head.

  I waited.

  Abruptly he swung into a full upright position and fixed me with his sad, old eyes.

  “Can you kill someone, Lottie?”

  “Kill?”

  “Yes, kill someone, woman. You’ve thought everything through but that, haven’t you? It would be your duty, your obligation, to use deadly force if necessary.”

  “I think so,” I stammered.

  “Can’t be think so. Gotta be know so.”

  I gave him a look and left.

  Chapter Twelve

  I managed to get out the door without crying. But then I’ve always been good at saving face. I was ashamed of my little venture into the big bad world. My stomach tightened as I drove home.

  We have photos of jack rabbit hunts at the society. Men stood proudly behind a mesa of rabbits neatly stacked as high as the roof of a porch. Clubbed to death. Years ago, it was a form of recreation second only to wolf hunts in general popularity. The children watched, and the womenfolk served pie afterward.

  I have pictures of children watching public hangings. They, too, were family affairs. Occasions for picnics.

  “Can you kill someone, Lottie?”

  I was free to cry now.

  “Not even a rabbit,” I whispered softly. There was no one to see my shame.

  Our farmstead is chock full of guns. We have shotguns and rifles. Hunting is a way of life. Two of Keith’s daughters, Angie and Bettina, hunt game. Surprisingly, Elizabeth does not and I never do. Don’t know how, don’t want to learn.

  I turned on the radio and was assaulted with information about the newest murder in Western Kansas. It had taken place in a rural farmhouse. A young couple shot. Just a little over a week ago, in our own pristine little town, a fine lady had been bludgeoned to death.

  “Can you kill someone, Lottie?”

  Who was I to expect other people to kill on my behalf? I wanted to keep my own hands clean. Yet I expected a peace officer to kill for me in a heartbeat. Wanted him to have the sin on his head. His hands bloody.

  Ironically, I knew all about hand guns. They had been my version of teenage rebellion. Josie and I had attended a private Eastern boarding school. When our father insisted we adopt a sport, I took up archery and target pistols, and Josie fencing. Loner activities, despite the fact we competed against teams from other schools. It was not what Daddy had in mind.

  I had a whole collection of purple ribbons. Handguns were a sport to me.

  By the time I turned up our lane, I had made myself profoundly miserable and could hardly stand my own double-minded company. Once inside, I sought refuge in front of the TV. I flipped over to PBS and stared stupidly at Jim Lehrer.

  Elizabeth’s nasty words kept echoing in my mind. “A lady whose idea of real life is working with dusty old manuscripts.”

  Keith came through the back door, and I jumped at the sound.

  “Nothing ready for supper,” I mumbled.

  “That’s okay,” he said with a quick glance. “You all right, hon? Can I fix you something? Headache coming on?”

  “No,” I said coldly, taking umbrage. I felt like there was a sign on my forehead. “Neurotic, pampered, high-strung bitch. Beware of the headache.”

  “Okie, dokie,” he said carefully.

  I closed my eyes, heard him start down the hallway.

  ***

  That night I snuggled up against him, making myself small against his bulk.

  “Keith, do you think it’s wrong to kill people?”

  “What?” He shot up, clicked on the lamp on his night stand, and turned to me, his head braced in the palm of his hand. “Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”

  “You’re safe,” I laughed. I propped my pillow up against the headboard and sat up.

  “What’s bothering you, Lottie?” he asked, gently stroking my hair.

  “Nothing. Nothing, really. Well Zelda’s murder, I guess. Do you think it’s right to kill someone? I really want to know.”

  “Not murder. But self defense? Of course. Why would you ask? You have to know how I feel about that, from my service in Vietnam. I trained for it, even though I was in the medics.”

  “If someone came to this house and you thought he was going to kill us, you wouldn’t think twice?”

  “I’d do it in a heartbeat,” he said flatly.

  He turned out the light and reached for me, pulled me closer, closer. I clung to his warmth. His sure sense of right and wrong. Hearing him talk like this, there was no other possible conclusion. It was my own personal hurdle. There could be no room for hesitation. That much I did know. If I did carry a gun, I would have to be ready to use it.

  Western Kansas was an arsenal already, I reasoned. Morally, what was the difference between owning a handgun or a shotgun or rifle, if you really would never be called on to use it anyway? I realized the same rationale could be used to justify a nuclear bomb.

  By morning, at some tortured level between dreams and nightmares, I had decided. I was capable of killing another human being.

  I couldn’t, wouldn’t kill a rabbit. But I could kill a person to protect someone’s life. Besides, how often would I ever have to draw a gun? Some peace officers went their whole career and never did.

  We had a gun dealer in town. I selected a Smith and Wesson Ladysmith. I walked into Sam’s office with it two days later.

  “Now, about my firearm training,” I said.

  ***

  I pushed through the kitchen door lugging a storage box containing my new uniforms, booklets, files, nightstick, badge, and gun.

  Keith sat at the island shuffling a deck of cards. He lifted his head, looked at me, looked away, rapidly shot the cards into a horizontal solitaire layout. When he flipped over the third card in the row, he turned up a joker.

  “Figures,” he said bleakly. He scooped up the cards, scanned the deck, removed the other joker and re-dealt.

  I had expected temper, prepared myself. Keith’s one bad habit. Farmers don’t bother to control it. Who’s to hear when they let ‘er rip under acres of sky? Keeps them happy and ulcerless. However, gentlemen cuss things, not ladies, and Keith
never used cruel words. Nevertheless, I expected him to tell me how he felt, loud and clear. Thrown by his gloom, I set my box on the floor.

  “How did you hear?”

  “Coffee shop.”

  “Oh Keith, I’m so sorry.” I closed my eyes. “I wanted you to hear it from me.”

  “That’s big of you,” he snapped. “Did it ever occur to you to talk it over with me first?”

  “Yes,” I stammered. “But I thought…”

  “You didn’t think, you knew, knew it was an ignorant, short-sighted move. You knew I would hit the ceiling.”

  “I knew you’d try to stop me and this was my decision. It’s about my life.”

  “No it isn’t. This has to do with our marriage, not just your life.”

  The veins in his neck throbbed. He unclenched his fists, rubbed his palms together, studied his fingers.

  “I feel by-passed, Lottie. Scuttled. Like you don’t trust me.”

  Stricken with guilt, I could not think of one word to say in my defense.

  He rose and started toward me. I expected him to enfold me and reassure me that we could work it out. Instead, he walked past me and didn’t speak again until he was half-way up the stairs.

  Turning, looking like an old man, his gaze was unwavering. “My life with Regina was miserable, you know that. You’re a gift from God. A surprise, after I’d reconciled myself to living alone the rest of my life. I’ve lost one wife. I’m telling you, woman, I can’t stand to lose another one.”

  It was the word “woman” that did it, though I knew it was an ancient country usage, for emphasis, not a slur.

  “I’ll be just fine. We’ll be just fine,” I yelled.

  “Like shit,” he said, and went up to bed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Sam, are these old cases still open?”

  I had been eyeing the dusty, old file cabinet in the corner for the past three days but stuck to studying material on police procedures, knowing he wouldn’t trust a woman who headed for the fun stuff right off. Volunteers were manning the historical society this week while I learned the ropes for my new job.

  It was going well because I had sense enough to smile when he smoked. The material he had given me on interview techniques seemed familiar, as I used some of the same methods in recording oral history.