Half Life (A Sam Larkin Mystery)

by Helen Cothran

  It was one of Hattie’s subtler allegories. Dutifully I summarized its implications for me. “Okay, I get it, I’m Agnes in the story. I don’t want Eddie spending time with Gabby. But if I act too obnoxious about it I’ll lose his friendship.” This seemed straightforward enough.

  Hattie smiled in a forbearing way, her eyes warm and wise. We had returned home and stood in front of our houses, a crisp breeze picking up, buffeting us. “I think what Agnes lacked was a clear understanding of what she really wanted.”

  I nodded. “I can see that. She thought she wanted Mary Beth to stop hanging out with you. But that wasn’t really it. She really just wanted to spend more time with her friend, like they used to.”

  Hattie smiled again, her old eyes bright with humor and intelligence. “There’s that. And maybe that is all there was to it. But I wonder, didn’t Agnes want Mary Beth to be someone other than what she was? Mary Beth was never going to want to ride horses more than she wanted to read books. And wasn’t Agnes expecting herself to be other than what she was?”

  I stood in the warm sunlight, trying to puzzle it out. Lacy had given up trying to get to the house and flopped down on my shoe. I shared her malaise. I wished Hattie would just speak her mind rather than couch her advice in these blasted riddles. “Alright, so what you’re trying to say is that what I really want is for Eddie to be someone other than what he is.” I was trying here, but, frankly, I just wasn’t getting it.

  Hattie bent down in a slow, creaky fashion and patted Lacy’s head. The dog looked up at her friend, eyes wide with adoration, tail thumping on the asphalt. “It’s not what I think that matters, Sam.”

  I huffed. “Okay, old woman, you’ve pushed me too far this time! Just tell me what you want me to understand!” I was laughing, and I gave her a little poke to let her know I was kidding around, but, honestly, I had the urge to kick her walker.

  Still petting Lacy, Hattie looked up and winked at me. “You know, your mother always liked your independence. She said you’d always live the life you wanted to. She said you’d never get your heart broken.”

  This was a shock, as it was any time Hattie relayed something good my mother had said about me. The two of us had never gotten along, and I had always felt that my mother struggled to love me, much less like me. But over the last year Hattie had told me things that made me realize that I had been wrong. My mother had loved, even admired, me, although sometimes I guess I made that difficult. Each one of Hattie’s disclosures shocked me, so at odds was it with what I thought I knew about my mother. This most recent disclosure was at least understandable. “Mom was hugely independent herself,” I told Hattie. “I could see how she would appreciate that quality in me.”

  Hattie stood up after petting Lacy and discretely pulled a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe her hand. She shook her head at me. “Your mother was independent only because she had to be. Your father died young, leaving her with three young children. She didn’t have much choice but to focus on getting on with it.”

  Vanessa had told me something similar just a few days ago. I had always been proud of my mother for prospering as a woman doing it all alone, for not needing a man, if truth be told. I asked Hattie, “Do you think she would have liked to have gotten married again? Have a man around to share the burden?”

  “I know she did. She was devastated by your father’s death and terrified to get involved with another man in case something like that happened again. She was a good mother—you children were her first priority. But she was lonely. And scared sometimes, having to do it all on her own. That’s why she was glad, I think, when you turned out so feisty and independent. You would never find yourself in her shoes.”

  I had never thought of my mother as lonely or frightened. She had always seemed so strong. Was Hattie saying that my Mom admired me because I possessed the strength she wished she had? But couldn’t you be strong and still want to be with someone? And couldn’t you be strong and still feel lonely and frightened sometimes? Of course you could. I had definitely lost the thread of whatever Hattie was trying to say. Maybe her mind was not working as youthfully as I had imagined.

  “Well,” she said, grabbing the handles of her walker. “I’ve taken enough of your valuable Sunday. I do so enjoy our walks together. It’s nice of you to think of your old neighbor. And listen to my silly stories.” She winked again, her smile playful.

  We said goodbye, and as I walked Lacy back to our house it occurred to me that I hadn’t followed the connection between her story about Agnes and her claim that my mother admired my independence. What the heck was Hattie trying to say? I thought back over the tiresome allegory: Agnes tried to hold on to her friend but wound up alienating her instead. Which would have happened in any event because Agnes and Mary Beth wanted different things out of life. How in the heck did that tie into my mother being grateful for my independence? What the hell had started this whole discussion, anyway? Hattie had accused me of being happy that Eddie and Gabby were on the rocks. I had said I wasn’t happy that he was hurt but . . . oh, for God’s sake, it was impossible! Why couldn’t Hattie give direct unasked-for advice like any other meddler?

  My cheerful humming had screeched to a halt, I noticed, or had been drowned out by the grinding of the gears in my head. I stomped up the walkway to the front door, yanked the door open, and let Lacy drag me inside. I realized that I had not unsnapped her leash like I usually did, and she was pulling like mad, all wiggly in anticipation of her after-walk doggie biscuit. I struggled to unsnap the leash and close the front door before she dislocated my shoulder. The dumb dog pranced and pulled, straining against the leather strap, trying to drag me to the kitchen. I tried to yank her back so I could unsnap the damn leash and close the door, but we were working at cross purposes. My hand went through the handle of the leash and the strap twisted around my wrist. Struggling to get my arm free, Lacy practically yanking it out of its socket, I lurched and my elbow hit the door. I’m not sure what happened next, but somehow the front door slammed—with my finger in it.

  The world stood still. All sound evaporated. My eyes—as if they were someone else’s eyes—saw the door and my finger, which was already blowing up. It must have been only a second. But the tableaux played out in slow motion, the door slamming, my finger smashed, my own self looking down at it. I felt my mind wait for the pain to come like a train speeding through a dark tunnel.

  It came alright.

  My howling put the coyotes to shame.

  29

  Urgent care had been super fun. When I checked in, Gladys the intake nurse raised a penciled eyebrow and said, “Again?” She acted like I broke my nose and then my finger on purpose. As if my goal in life was to be a drain on healthcare resources. When I explained that my dog was responsible, again, her knife-thin eyebrows shot up two inches, and her lips pursed so hard they almost disappeared. Her facial calisthenics clearly communicated to me her belief that I deserved this latest injury and that I was lying through my teeth as to how I’d gotten it. So much for nurses and that TLC crap.

  When I finally got in to see Dr. Singh, he was too debonair to do the eyebrow thing, but I did notice a small shake of his head. An x-ray revealed that the middle bone of my right index finger was fractured. This would make typing interesting. Vince would be thrilled!

  My finger had swelled up like a dead hare on the highway and hurt like a big dog. Dr. Singh drilled a hole in the nail to let the blood out and reduce the swelling. Then he put a splint on my finger and wrapped it with white tape. Though my finger actually felt a lot better when he was done, I didn’t think the good doctor was as gentle as he could have been during the procedure. I think he and Gladys are in cahoots, trying to make my visits as unpleasant as possible so I’d stop coming back.

  Thinking of people who seemed determined to hurt me reminded me of the plan I had made before I had been derailed by another medical emergency. When Gabby had refused to talk about Pete’s drug habits, I had decided to fall back o
n Plan B. I didn’t like plan B. It meant asking hard questions of a man who had once wanted to kill me. The last thing I needed was another broken bone. But what the heck. I was on a roll.

  .

  My motto is, if you’re going to do something foolhardy, get it over with as quickly as possible. That is why I sat at the bar in Cactus Sam’s just two hours after my urgent care visit. As I tried to ignore the throbbing pain under my nice new splint and the fuzzy weirdness in my head, I heard the door behind me open, sending a shaft of light into the dark bar. The door closed, pitching the joint into darkness again, and Richard Sampson sat down on the bar stool next to me. We nodded to one another in the mirror behind the bar. Cactus Sam’s was nearly empty, just a spattering of regulars sitting alone in the dark with their drinks. Big Red watched a cooking show on one of the gigantic monitors over the bar. When he saw Sampson he came over with a glass of scotch. I was sipping a Coke on account of the painkillers I was taking for my finger.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” I said.

  He looked at my hand on the bar. My finger looked like a kielbasa sausage. “And what is this latest disaster?” he asked.

  I glanced at his reflection in the mirror and saw him compress his lips together.

  “The dog again.”

  His cheek muscles popped out as he clamped his jaw. “Ah, the hapless Lacy. I go on record as having counseled you to get a dog more your size.”

  “You forget, I inherited Lacy from my mother. I wouldn’t have the heart to trade her in.”

  “Then the source of your mishaps is really your good heart.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me or praising me. I chose to think the later. Things between us had improved since eight months ago when I had accused him of murder and he had returned the favor by wanting to kill me. We sat for a few minutes in silence, enjoying the drinks. I saw his enormous bald head in the mirror, could feel the size of him next to me. It was like sitting beside Half Dome.

  “So,” he said, “What can I do for you?”

  “You know I’ve been investigating Pete Castillo’s disappearance.”

  Sampson nodded. “He hasn’t turned up I take it.”

  “No. Which surely means he’s dead.”

  “Like Bernard Cornwell, our favorite therapist.” Sampson was quick.

  “Ah, you read the papers. I think the two events have to be connected.”

  “A disappearance and a murder in the span of three weeks, in Desert Rock? I agree with you.”

  “The sheriff’s department is acting on the assumption that Cornwell’s death has something to do with the drugs found in his car.”

  He swiveled toward me abruptly. “Drugs?”

  “Yeah, crystal meth. I’m not really supposed to be telling you that.”

  Sampson thought about it for a few minutes. Finally, he shook his head. “You sound dubious about the sheriff’s department’s theory.”

  I nodded, took a sip of Coke. “It just feels hinky. Look, Pete is murdered, but his body never surfaces. The killer went to some trouble to make sure it would never be found. So why would the same killer murder Cornwell and then leave his body for all the world to see? Cornwell’s car was on a jeep trail where runners and hikers go all the time.”

  Sampson tossed back the rest of his drink and nodded to Big Red. When Sampson asked if I wanted one, I shook my head. “Painkillers and alcohol—not a good combo,” I explained. His jaw clenched again.

  He said, “You raise an interesting question. I assume you have an answer.”

  “The killer wanted Cornwell to be found. He—or she—wanted the cops to find the drugs.”

  “You think the killer wants Cornwell’s murder to look like a drug deal gone bad.”

  “Exactly. To disguise the real reason that Cornwell—and Pete—were murdered.”

  “Which is?” Sampson was looking me square in the face now.

  “Well, who have I been talking to? Bernard Cornwell and Matthew Thornton.”

  His eyes flashed, and I saw his huge strong jaw tighten. “Ah, yes. Doctor and patient. Salesman and snake oil. Except that Cornwell is now dead. I see. You think Matthew Thornton is our murderer.”

  I liked how he said “our.” He had been pulled into the mystery. “Well, don’t forget, Matthew is married. Faith Thornton had every reason to want Pete dead, too. Her marriage was on the line.”

  “How so?”

  “I think Matthew and Pete were seeing one another.”

  Sampson didn’t seem surprised at my assertion. I remembered that the last time we had met, he had acted a little cagey when Thornton’s name came up in connection with Pete. I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. He nodded his giant head. “Yeah, so much for reparative therapy. What a load of BS.”

  “If Pete and Matthew were lovers, Faith has a pretty good motive, don’t you think?”

  “I can see that she would want to kill Pete. But why Cornwell?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? At this point, I can’t see why.”

  “So we’re back to Thornton being the killer. I guess I can see how he might want Pete dead, to destroy temptation, protect his image as ‘cured.’ But why would he kill Cornwell? I thought he and his therapist were like father and son.”

  “I know. That’s why I have another theory. We might have two killers. Cornwell killed Pete to keep him away from Matthew. Then Matthew kills Cornwell to avenge Pete’s murder. The relationship between them had definitely deteriorated. Something was going on with those two.”

  “So how do the drugs fit in with your theories?”

  “That’s why I wanted to see you.”

  “Oh?” he gave me a look of mock surprise. “What would I know about drugs?”

  I smiled. “Well, you know. It was crystal meth. Not pot. Not heroin.”

  “And you, naturally, thought of me.”

  I shrugged sheepishly, said just above a whisper. “Sorry, it’s just that meth is big in the gay community.”

  “Ah yes,” he whispered back. “The great sex enhancer.”

  “See, that’s why I thought of you.”

  He eyed me, thinking about whether to be offended or amused, or if he wanted to break another one of my fingers.

  Before he decided on the latter, I said, “Let’s say that Matthew kills his therapist. He’s smart enough to realize that after he kills Cornwell, the two murders will probably be seen as connected. I told him straight out that the sheriff’s department was viewing Pete’s disappearance as a murder. And I drilled him with questions about his whereabouts that night.”

  Sampson whistled softly. “Ever think of hiring a bodyguard?”

  “You available?” I said, eying his massive body.

  I thought he would roll his eyes and make some disparaging comment. But he said in all seriousness, “You get into trouble, you call me anytime.”

  I knew he meant it. And I saw that somehow, despite our rocky beginning, we had become friends of a sort. Relief coursed through me. My other fingers were safe. Sampson actually felt paternal toward me, and for some reason, I didn’t take offense like I normally would, taking it as a slight to my gender. He was a protective sort, that’s all. It’s what he did.

  “Let’s hope I don’t have to make that call. I’m hoping Matthew, if he is indeed the killer, will feel that he has succeeded in directing attention away from himself. He’s got the sheriff’s department believing it at any rate.”

  “They don’t think the drugs are too obvious?” Sampson rolled his eyes. He doesn’t have much respect for our local law enforcement.

  I felt a bit protective of my friend Trent. “Well, it’s the evidence they have. And every law enforcement agency in the country is fixated on drugs. Deputy Wise told me they have several drug investigations going here in Desert Rock.”

  Sampson raised an eyebrow. “Do they now?”

  I swallowed the last of my cola. “Yes, I thought you might be interested in knowing that.”
<
br />   He narrowed his eyes. “I am interested, but I’m trying to figure out how you knew I would be. It’s a little disturbing how much you seem to know. Or guess.”

  “I’m just testing theories. How easy would it be, for example, for Cornwell to obtain meth in this town?”

  Sampson snorted. “First off, why would he? Bernard Cornwell, the upstanding Christian therapist, using meth? Risk his squeaky clean reputation? He just doesn’t seem the type.”

  “I agree. But then, you never know. Let’s assume the improbable. The guy did drugs. Would anyone in Desert Rock sell to him?”

  “I’m again unnerved that you think I would have the answer to that question. But then again, you seem to get a bead on the truth faster than anyone I know.”

  Frankly, I hadn’t been sure at all if Sampson was into meth. All I knew was that he was a married man with children, and he liked having sex with other men. It had been a long shot. I said, “I realize I’m making a lot of assumptions.”

  He nodded, considered my question. “Let me speak hypothetically. A drug dealer in town would probably not sell to Cornwell. They wouldn’t trust him. The business would not be worth the risk.”

  I smiled. “Hypothetically, you seem to know a lot about drug dealers.”

  “I read a lot.”

  I smiled. “Would a dealer sell to Matthew Thornton?”

  “The bigger dealers in town? No way. Again, too risky. Once you get a few levels down from the source, now you’re talking a different game. Meth gets passed from hand to hand in the gay community. Maybe someone sold it to Thornton. But he’s an outsider, even an enemy. It’s hard to imagine.”