by Jane Elzey
“‘On the way to Hot Springs,’ you said. And you believe her?”
“Of course I do.”
“I see.” The woman made a note on the folder.
“I saw it!” The words were out of her mouth before she knew it.
“Saw what?”
“I saw the deer on the side of the road! Genna showed me the picture. And I saw her car, too. There was deer fur on the bumper.”
Did the detective believe her? Did she believe herself? Why had she said such a stupid thing? There was no picture. And maybe there was no deer. She didn’t know. Not really. What did she believe? Was Genna telling the truth? Or was she covering up for something far more horrible?
She bit at her lip, then swallowed. Sweat trickled beneath her shirt. “It happens all the time, you know. Arkansas has one of the highest deer collision statistics. Did you know that? Of course, you do, you’re a cop. I know that because I read about it in an insurance study. I don’t know why. It just caught my attention.”
The floodgates opened to let every fact she knew tumble down the spillway. There was no obstacle powerful enough to make it stop.
“There are over two million car accidents because of deer. Not just in Arkansas, of course, but everywhere. Except in Hawaii, because they don’t have many deer. October and November are the worst months because the deer are rutting. I know it’s not October. It’s spring, but that doesn’t mean the deer aren’t still out jumping in front of cars.” Amy finally stuttered into silence.
She stared at the woman in front of her. Was that a smile of amusement?
The detective pulled yet another photo from the file and laid it on top. It was a picture of Genna and Zelda in the Mercedes. The car was entering the parking garage of the Bennfield Hotel.
“You’ll notice,” the detective said, “there is no damage to this car at their arrival.”
Suddenly she was aware that everything she had said was recorded. That every word would come back to haunt her. Every word would be questioned until her story was as full of holes as the colander in the sink—noodles, like lies, knotted by boiling water.
The thought loomed heavy with the realization. Dominoes on Genna’s deck had turned deadly. And she was smack dab in the middle of it.
Rian’s words came back to her. If anybody looks too closely, we look guilty.
She felt guilty even though she knew her hands were clean.
“What is the nature of Rian O’Deis’s employment?”
Amy tugged at her bra. “She runs the Pot Shed at the Cardboard Cottage & Company.” Her voice sounded faint and far away in her own ears.
“Funny name.”
“She sells potted herbs.”
“And this is what she does for a living?”
“She also buys and sells vintage cars.”
“That’s an interesting occupation. A bit unusual for a woman.”
Amy frowned at the rudeness of the accusation. First Zelda, then Genna, and now she needed to defend Rian, too. If the police knew or suspected what else Rian did for a living, they could try to trap her into an admission they would all regret.
“The car thing is kind of a hobby. But it’s perfect for someone like Rian. And she is good at it.”
The floodgates opened again.
“People give Rian their wish list, and she finds the perfect vintage car for them. She found Genna that gorgeous old Mercedes, and Zelda has owned several vintage cars because she likes to drive something different every year. And the Hummer Zack drives—drove,” she corrected herself, and then fell silent. The water over the dam finally ran dry. What had she admitted to in that ramble? She hadn’t played it like twenty-one questions, with yes and no answers, as she had planned. She had spilled the details that Rian would never have let out.
“Speaking of the Hummer, why does O’Deis have a lien against the vehicle for forty-five thousand dollars?”
“I, I wouldn’t know. I don’t know anything about that.”
“I see.” The detective made another note in the folder.
See? What exactly did she see? Why did Rian have a lien against the Hummer? It must be part of that tangled mess Rain mentioned. Is that how she had made an investment in Zack’s business?
L91! She had forgotten to ask Rian about the key. She had forgotten to give the key to Rian.
“Were you not aware of the arrangement between Rian O’Deis, Genna Gregory, and Zack Carlisle?”
“Arrangement?”
“They own the lion’s share of Mr. Carlisle’s company.”
“The lion’s share?”
The words felt like a slap in the face. Her cheeks grew red and heated as if they’d been struck with a harsh hand. Nausea churned her stomach into fire. The lion’s share. Not an investment. Rian and Genna hadn’t just made an investment in Zack’s company. They owned it! They didn’t tell her that. They didn’t tell Zelda. Anger rose in the back of her throat like too much late-night wine. Her heart sank with a heavy pang.
Betrayal. The ache of how betrayal felt raked through her now. She knew that feeling, a raging fire that burned friendships to the ground. She drove 1,200 miles to hide from that rage six years ago. Humiliated and heartbroken, she fled her hometown, a tank full of lies she had been told fueling every mile of her escape.
She swallowed her anger, fighting against the emotion. She wouldn’t let it overtake her now. She wouldn’t let it ruin this friendship. That was then and this was now. There had to be a reasonable explanation here. There had to be. And she would find it. If she ever got out of this stark room and out from under the detective’s hard gaze and never-ending questions, she would hunt it down. She would demand the truth.
The detective was watching her closely, brows furrowed, eyes bright.
“You didn’t know of their business relationship?” she asked.
Amy shook her head. It was easier that way. Safer to stay mum.
“Then you wouldn’t know anything about the insurance policy?” The woman paged through the folder. “Proceeds of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Each. That’s quite a bit of money.”
Amy didn’t respond. Yes, that was a lot of money. Yes, they had kept this a secret. Yes, there was much more going on at the domino table on Genna’s back deck. But murder?
Yes.
The answer struck her hard, like a bat to a ball. It was right in front of her. Right there all along. They had conspired to a common end. Zack’s end, and the impenetrable cold, hard floor of death. And they had conspired without her. They had made their plans and carried them out without her ever knowing.
No! This couldn’t be the truth.
“I understand you were the first to arrive at Mrs. Carlisle’s aid on the evening of the accident,” the detective was saying.
She blinked as if it would push her thoughts back, or the fears that tumbled along with them.
“How was Mrs. Carlisle’s demeanor the next day?”
Had they killed him? Had they planned it? The question echoed in her head, hollow like the way a hawk call echoes across the hills and hollers.
“What?”
“I asked about Mrs. Carlisle’s demeanor that day.”
“She was distraught. She was as any wife would be if her husband died that way.” Amy looked up, tears pooling at her lashes.
“Did you notice anything unusual at the time?”
“Unusual?” She saw Zelda’s shoes in the bathtub. She heard the thud of the bag as it disappeared in the dumpster. She heard the sirens wail in her head as she awakened from her dream.
“No,” she said quietly.
“Thank you for your information,” the woman said suddenly as she scraped the chair back from the table and rose. She smiled briefly but, again, without feeling. “This is all we need,” she added and opened the door to Amy’s freedom.
There were too many secrets hidden under the bones of her fancy dominoes with their crystal pips. Too many bones indeed.
* * *
Rian waited in the empty room. She pulled lint dregs from her shirtsleeves and faded Levis. She pulled a pocketknife from her jeans pocket to clean her nails, putting it away after she realized she was probably being watched. This was her favorite pocketknife, the one her father had carried. The antler handle was worn smooth and dark from his touch. She would fight anyone who tried to take it from her. She crossed her arms across her chest and lounged back in the chair, her eyes closed, her sneakers crossed at her ankles under the table. To anyone watching, she hoped she looked like she was taking a nap, but her mind was busy retracing the steps of that day.
The day Zack was killed.
Rian had driven the dusty road until she saw the base of the cell tower. Zack had given her the address, and she knew it was one of the tower sites the company leased. Rian had pulled into the driveway and stopped. The cell tower rose from a patch of mowed land shaved from the top of a mountain. A good three hundred yards from the tower, under a canopy of mimosa tree shade, sat an old mobile home. At one time it was the Cadillac of manufactured housing, but in the bright light, it was dull and neglected.
She geared the Fiat into reverse but sat a moment, looking at the sad sight. On either side of the rusty steps, five-gallon paint buckets had once held something tall and flowering. They were now dry dusty stalks, camouflaging the underbelly of the mobile home. Sun-bleached yard ornaments sat forlornly and forgotten in the brown brambles. Not far from the driveway, at the base of a tree, a single homemade wooden cross marked a plot along with a wreath of faded plastic flowers.
She eyed the John Deere tractor parked under the carport, noticing the bright green was a startling contrast to the drabness of its surroundings. A blue-and-white pickup truck, a Ford F-150, was parked beside the tractor with the cab pointed out. It had that square look of a mideighties model. The one just before Ford changed the design of America’s favorite pickup by rounding out the corners and expanding the cab into a place a man could go to worship. This was a working man’s truck, and she noticed the white side panels were immaculate. The truck had seen its day on the farm, but she could tell it belonged to someone who knew how to treat a vehicle.
She couldn’t say that about Zack.
Rian backed out of the driveway and turned the Fiat so she was facing out under an oak tree hanging over the road. She was far enough back from the county road that she couldn’t be seen by passersby, and far enough from the homesite to go unnoticed by the owner, who would probably question who she was and why she was there.
She had patted the dash of her Fiat 1500, five-speed—her favorite car ever. It was a jewel she plucked from an auction one day when she had a fist full of cash. The Fiat was the same make and model Gina Lollobrigida zipped around in during wartime Italy.
Zack drove like someone who knew the dirt road by habit, gunning the Hummer around the bend, spinning in the dirt before lurching to a stop in front of her Fiat. A cloud of dust had settled over everything, including her.
“Jerk,” she said. No wonder Zelda wanted him gone. She handed him the bag of bud and the key to L91. Their conversation was brief. He was cocky as usual. She watched as he drove down the road and turned into the driveway at the cell tower site.
Rian opened her eyes. The door opened with a heavy metal clank, drawing her from her thoughts and memories. Her eyes followed a woman as she sat down opposite. They both smiled, but Rian didn’t mean it and she didn’t think the officer did, either.
“What’s this all about?” Rian asked.
“Just a little routine police business,” the woman answered. She splayed her hands out in front of her, covering the folder and the pages inside. “How long have you known Zack Carlisle?”
“A while.”
“How long is that?”
Rian shrugged. “Five years give or take.”
“How did you meet him?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Don’t remember or don’t want to share?”
Rian looked the woman in the eye, dark eyes that didn’t give away much. “I don’t remember.”
“How long have you known Zelda Carlisle?”
“A long time.”
“Ms. O’Deis, can you be more specific, please?”
“August 1992.”
The detective scribbled in her notes.
“What was your relationship with Mr. Carlisle?”
Rian steepled her fingers to her chest. “What is it you want to know?”
“I want to know about you and Zack Carlisle.”
“He was my friend’s husband.”
“Nothing more?”
“We weren’t screwing around if that’s what you mean.”
“You had no other business with Zack Carlisle?”
“None to speak of.” None she would speak of. It was her business to know the answer to that.
“What is the nature of your partnership, then?”
Rian blinked to hide her surprise. She didn’t see that trap before it sprung. She wasn’t about to let it close in around her. “I must have misunderstood your question,” she said.
The two stared at each other. The silence was brief but thorough. Rian laid her hands on the table in front of her, her fingers splayed open. “What is it that you want to know?” she asked finally.
“Tell me about this partnership.”
Rian leaned against the chair back and crossed her ankles. “I invested in his company because he needed cash. I had some cash to invest. It was a simple business opportunity.”
“For you and Ms. Gregory?”
“I can’t speak for Genna.” She wouldn’t speak for Genna. Genna’s point of view might confuse matters a bit, but she’d have to let that ride itself out.
“Where did the cash come from?”
Rian’s gaze was steady, pointed, intense. “Why does that matter?”
The detective smiled. Rian didn’t smile back.
“I understand you sell used cars?”
“I sell vintage cars.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Usually about ten or fifteen grand. Vintage cars have a higher price tag and better clientele.”
“Zack Carlisle’s vehicle—did he purchase it from you?”
“Yes.”
“Is it vintage?”
“It’s more a collector’s item. A 1992 gloss green Hummer is not so easy to find.”
“Why is that?”
“Ninety-two was the first year they made civilian Hummers—only made a few hundred of them. Only made two in gloss green.”
“Where did you find it?”
Rian cocked her head. “Now, that’s a trade secret. I have sources.”
The detective shook her head slowly. “Where did you find it?” she repeated. Her tone had turned terse.
“I bought it from a military collector in Delaware,” she said finally.
“Why the lien?”
Rian raised an eyebrow. The detective had caught her again unaware, a trap set and left hidden. She had to be careful. Someone had been doing their homework. “Ah, the lien,” she said, her tone light. “It was because Zack was short of the selling price, and I didn’t want to sell it to him for less. We made a compromise. If he sells it, I get my money off the top.”
“And now?”
Rian shrugged and let out a sigh. “The lien is still good.”
“Are you aware that Genna Gregory’s car was in an accident the night of Mr. Carlisle’s death?”
Rian nodded. “Coincidence. Nothing more than that.”
“But she didn�
��t report it to the authorities.”
“We were all a little distracted that day. She reported it to her insurance company.”
“Is that something we can verify?”
“Can you? I don’t know. I guess that depends on you and the insurance company.”
The detective nodded curtly and focused on Rian with a dark-eyed stare. “Now about this corporate insurance policy.”
The two women looked at each other with determination. Neither spoke. Rian let the silence grow. The detective spoke first.
“I understand the insurance proceeds at Mr. Carlisle’s death will be payable to you and Genna Gregory equally. Five hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money.”
Rian didn’t speak.
“Why won’t you answer?”
“You didn’t ask me a question.”
The officer leaned back and stretched her arms to her sides and then above her head before landing them akimbo behind her neck, lacing her fingers shut. She coughed and let it rumble into light laughter.
“It would be best if you would be more forthcoming, Rian O’Deis. We can continue to play cat and mouse if you like. I can be here all day if we need to be. If you have nothing to hide about this relationship, or the money, or his death, now is the time for you to speak up.”
Rian leaned forward on her elbows. “Detective,” she said quietly. She kept her voice flat and smooth as if she were encouraging a hungry dog to let go of a bone. “You and I both know that under these circumstances things appear somewhat suspicious. But I assure you, our goal was just about being smart in business. Zack Carlisle climbed cell towers for a living. The risk of an accident was high from the get-go, and he was the only one of the three of us who knew anything about this business. That insurance policy was meant to insure our investment, which it has. I agree this circumstance is unfortunate—a man is dead. But there’s no rationale for making a mountain out of our molehill, and no evidence that we had anything to do with his death. We’re just two women who wanted to protect the investment of our life savings.”
Rian leaned back and steepled her fingers, her elbows resting lightly on the arms of the chair. “Now, if we were men, you wouldn’t be questioning our motives or our methods. Don’t you think that’s true?”