Dear Crossing (The Ray Schiller Series)

by Doering, Marjorie

  Chet’s ignorance of their affair surprised her. Maybe Valerie’s daddy wasn’t as sharp as everyone claimed, or maybe he chose to wear blinders. Paul, after all, was a valuable asset to his business. Maybe Stockton’s love for his corporate baby took precedence over his flesh-and-blood child. Dana smirked.

  Maybe it was just as well Paul’s wife had been put out of her misery. Unlike Dana, at least she wouldn’t have to listen to Paul whine about wanting to take over ACC anymore. Until Chet stepped down and let Paul succeed him, Dana would still have to put up with it. If she could turn things around, that is.

  On Friday night, her plans had been placed in serious jeopardy. Paul had shown up as angry as she’d ever seen him, ranting about Chet reneging on his upcoming retirement date. He wanted her “to be there for him.” To be there for him, for godssakes. Her sympathy was in short supply.

  Friday night’s argument played in her head like a movie trailer—Paul sitting with his legs straddling the corner of the mattress, his first three shirt buttons undone—her doing. She knelt behind him, letting her arms snake over his shoulders, her bare breasts pressing against his back as she slid her slender fingers through the chest hair beneath his shirt.

  In her mind, she saw it again—heard it all, word for word.

  “Dana, stop it. I told you that’s not why I’m here tonight.”

  “No harm in trying to change your mind, is there?”

  “I’m not in the mood.”

  “What’s next? ‘I’ve got a headache?’”

  Paul stripped her arms from his body. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  She shrugged it off. “Why doesn’t someone just give that old fossil the heave-ho? Stockton’s a lot older than that Keeling guy who got the boot tonight, right?”

  “No one tells the company founder and president when to call it a day.” He stood and paced. “Chet’s had an exceptionally long run. I’m sick of waiting for him to get out of my way.”

  “Now you have some idea how I feel about your wife.”

  Paul’s voice reverberated off the bedroom walls. “Shut up, Dana. For God’s sake, let it be.”

  She grabbed a nail file from the nightstand and sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, shaping her nails—a sound she knew set his teeth on edge. “If you wanted to be left alone, why’d you bother coming here in the first place? You could’ve gotten that treatment at home.”

  An ominous silence loomed between them.

  She ignored the weight of his stare. “How much longer are you going to keep me waiting? When are you going to leave her?”

  His silence persisted.

  “Know what, Paul? I don’t think you’re as upset about good old Chet delaying his retirement as you claim. You’ve got Valerie, me and a vice-presidency, too. Poor, baby. That’s gotta be hard to take. I don’t know how you stand it.”

  She sat with both heels tucked beneath her trim hips, her lustrous strawberry-blonde hair cascading to a point just above the swell of her breasts. It was a sight that had moved him to passion on other occasions. Tonight she saw no desire in his eyes—only contempt.

  “I must’ve been out of my mind to expect anything but sarcasm from you.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Paul, but I don’t know what you want me to do.”

  “I want you to be here for me tonight.”

  “I am here, but for all the good it’s doing, I might as well be asleep as sitting around watching you sulk.”

  “Damned if you aren’t right.” Paul kicked the mattress with a force that nearly lifted her from its surface. “Yes, absolutely right.” He stormed from the room.

  She raced after him. “Paul, don’t leave.”

  His steps slowed but, as he looked over his shoulder, his eyes smoldered with anger.

  “I want to help, but I don’t know what you want me to do. Just tell me.”

  “Tell you?” His laughter was hollow. “I’ll tell you what you should do, Dana. You go back to bed and forget I was here. I’ll try to do the same.”

  She followed him to the front door. “Where are you going? Home to Valerie?”

  “You don’t have to worry. Valerie’s in Widmer for the weekend.”

  “Then stay here with me.” Dana reached out to touch him, but Paul stepped back.

  “No. Coming here tonight was a mistake.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Paul opened the door. “It means I should have known better than to expect any understanding from you.” He didn’t wait for a reply. The door closed with a solid thud—a sound like her plans colliding with a brick wall.

  Dana lit a cigarette, picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Nick, you can come over now. He just left. I need to talk to you, baby.”

  Having burned down too far, the heat of her cigarette jarred her back to the present. Dana brought the tender skin between her lips, soothing it with her tongue. She looked at the Star Tribune lying on her coffee table, announcing that Valerie was gone. Dead.

  Dana smiled. King me, Paul.

  8

  Monday, April 5th

  At the back of Bob’s Market, Neil Lloyd stood at the deli counter, waiting for a pint of seafood salad—the payoff for a bet lost to Irene Herman. The new Hy-Vee grocery store was closer, bigger, brighter, but she’d insisted it had to come from Bob’s with its creaky wooden floors and too-narrow aisles. She claimed their seafood salad was better.

  Bits of conversations filtered back to Neil from the front of the store.

  “She was such a nice woman. Who in the world would do something like that to her?”

  “The whole thing gives me the chills.”

  “The reporters were three deep at the police station yesterday. They’re still hanging around.”

  “A reporter from WCCO stopped my husband for a man-on-the-street interview. We haven’t seen it yet. I hope he looked presentable.”

  It was no surprise that Valerie Davis’s murder was all anybody was talking about. Another voice, louder and more familiar than the others, traveled through the small store. Hank Kramer.

  “Hey, I was in this line first.”

  “I’m sorry,” Neil heard the cashier say, “but you stepped away. I’ll be with you in just a minute.”

  “I haven’t got all day. Why don’t you women take your gossip outside? I could die of old age waiting around while the three of you waste my time with your useless babbling.”

  Neil grabbed the pint of seafood salad from the deli clerk and struggled past grocery carts double-parked in aisles where gray-haired matrons looked for DelMonte peaches instead of Libby’s, or Libby’s rather than Dole’s. He saw Hank Kramer scowling near the first of three checkout counters. The old dairy farmer was clutching a four-pack of generic bathroom tissue and a box of matches.

  “Fine thing,” Kramer said, “when you can’t leave for a second and expect people to wait their proper turn.”

  Neil approached. “Is there a problem here?”

  A towheaded three-year-old in a shopping cart smiled up at him from around her raspberry sucker. Her mother sighed. “I didn’t have much. I thought Mr. Kramer would be gone a little longer.”

  Kramer slammed his last two items down on the counter next to several other items awaiting his return. “If you women flapped your gums less and tended to the business at hand, you’d have been finished by now.”

  Neil used his best ‘public servant’ smile. “It’s only natural for people to stop and talk considering what’s happened. You can spare the ladies an extra minute or two, can’t you?”

  Kramer sneered. “That Davis woman’s dead. This store won’t see another red cent from her. If they want my business, they’d better see they take care of me.”

  “I’m sure they will, Mr. Kramer.” Neil noticed the checker picking up the pace. “You’ll be out of here in no time, isn’t that right, Sarah?”

  The clerk finished bagging the woman’s purchases. “As soon as possible, believe me.”
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  At the station, the door to Woody’s office stood open. Ray stepped inside hoping there’d been some progress. “Any word on those phone records yet?”

  Woody rocked back in his chair. “Relax. Neil hasn’t gotten back yet. I don’t know any more than you do.”

  Woody’s phone rang. “Chief Newell. Yes, go ahead.” Ray started toward the door. Covering the mouthpiece, Woody stopped him with a quick “Wait a minute.” He began jotting down notes on a legal pad. “All right. Yeah, okay.” Silence followed as he listened and scrawled more information on the page. “Right,” he said at last. “Okay, got it. What? No, not yet. Right. Thanks. Yeah, you too.”

  “The crime lab?” Ray said, hazarding a guess.

  “Yeah. They finished analyzing the boot impressions and footprints from the crime scene. Based on the depth of the impressions and the length of the stride, the man we’re looking for is roughly 6’1” and probably weighs in at about 200 to 210 pounds.”

  “That doesn’t narrow it down much.”

  “You didn’t let me finish. They found something interesting in the guy’s gait. He walks with a limp. Bad right leg.”

  “That ought to help. What about the muddy prints in the upstairs bedroom?”

  “That news isn’t so good. The sculpted pattern of the carpet made it impossible for them to make a definite determination on whether they’re a match to the prints found outside.”

  While Woody and Ray discussed the information, Neil entered the station and set the container of seafood salad in front of Irene. “Fresh and still chilled.”

  “Better be.” She looked at him over the top of her glasses and grinned. “You look mighty pleased about something. You been playing with yourself?”

  Neil’s smile widened. “Someone ought to revoke your license to be a grandma.”

  “Let ‘em try.” She dug a plastic utensil and paper napkin out of her top drawer. “You could’ve been quicker. It’s one o’clock already—I’m starving.” Irene dug in. “So, what’s up with that silly grin?”

  “I think I’ve got the perfect man for you, Irene.”

  “There’s no such thing, honey.” She loaded a mouthful of food on the fork. “But out of curiosity, who’d you have in mind?”

  “Hank Kramer.”

  Her eyes rolled behind her bifocals. “Forget it. I like my men seasoned, not senile.”

  The sound of Neil’s laughter drifted into Woody’s office.

  “He’s back. Good,” Woody said. He shouted, “Neil, get him in here.”

  Neil hurried into the office. “What’s up?”

  Woody asked. “Did you get the subpoena for those phone records?”

  “It’s in the works.”

  “You were supposed to come back with it.” Ray told him.

  “Bad timing. Judge Froelich was called away before I got there. His office is going to get back to us.”

  “Damn it.”

  Woody ripped the sheet of notes from his tablet and handed it to Neil. “Give this to Irene. Have her type it up. I want a copy in every officer’s hands ASAP.”

  Neil skimmed the information on the paper. “Hey, you heard from the crime lab?”

  “Just now,” Woody said.

  Coming around to Woody’s side of the desk, Neil pointed. “What’s this word? I can’t make it out.”

  “You don’t have to. Irene knows how to read my writing.”

  “Yeah, Chief, but what is it?”

  Exasperated, Woody grabbed the paper from his hand and shoved it back at him again. “Limp. It’s limp, all right? Now will you get that to Irene?”

  Neil stood staring at the notes. “I think I know this guy.”

  Woody catapulted out of his chair. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, sir. Not by name or anything, but I saw him at the Copper Kettle. I practically had lunch with him. The description matches him right down to the limp.”

  “When was this?”

  “Um…Saturday. Around noon. I sat down next to him while Amy was taking his order at the lunch counter. Never saw him before, but this has to be the same guy.”

  “What can you add to this description?”

  “He’s good-looking. Well-built. Dark hair—black. Eyes are dark, too.”

  “Age?”

  “Mid-twenties, I think. There was a scuffed-up Harley parked outside when I got there. A shame—real nice bike. He was wearing biker boots, so I figured it was his. His jeans were shredded around the right knee. The fabric was still kinda bloody. I remember thinking that the damage to the bike and his leg probably happened at the same time—and recently. He limped on his way out.”

  “Anything else?”

  Neil nodded. “When I asked where he was from, he clammed up and waved Amy over to change his order to a take-out.”

  “Any chance you noticed his license?” Ray asked.

  “Only that it was a Minnesota plate, but when the guy paid, he pulled out a book of matches along with his wallet. They were from the Shady Manor Motel.”

  Woody slapped the rookie’s shoulder. “Neil, I think I love you.”

  Neil’s perfect teeth gleamed behind a broad smile. “Thanks, but I’m holding out for Amy.”

  “Nice going,” Ray said. “C’mon, we’ve got business at the Shady Manor.” Halfway to the door Ray stopped, belatedly waiting for the order from Woody.

  “Go on, beat it. Find this guy.”

  9

  Hank Kramer’s mood remained sour as he turned the truck into his farm’s unpaved driveway. Parked halfway between his house and the dilapidated barn, he turned the engine off, swearing as the pickup continued to sputter and pop before stopping altogether. Moments later, the silence was broken by a blood-curdling sound coming from the barn.

  Bellowing—mad, enraged bellowing.

  After milking, he’d put his cows out to pasture. Locked in a sturdy stall until the vet saw fit to show up, only his breeding bull remained inside, secured in a concrete stall closed off by a heavy metal gate. The barn door was latched shut. No predator could have gotten�to his bull, he reasoned. What kind of animal would try? But that sound…

  Letting the grocery bag spill its contents across the seat, he hurried to the barn. The intermittent bellows coming from behind the barn doors raised the hairs on his neck. Torn between using caution and taking action, he stood outside the closed door, trying to make sense of the animal’s rage. The sound reverberated through the weathered walls.

  “What the hell?”

  Kramer took a deep breath and, with gnarled hands, slowly pulled the door open. Allowing only enough room for his body to slip through, he entered, closing the door behind him. The barn’s dusky interior further hampered his failing eyesight. In the momentary silence, he heard only his own shuffling footsteps and the heartbeat pounding in his ears. Cautiously, he moved farther into the structure’s interior.

  Halfway to the sturdy pen, he�froze, his voice a raspy whisper. “God almighty.” Light sifting through the spaces between the barn’s warped wallboards showed the heavy gate standing open.

  The stall was empty.

  “How in God’s name…?”

  From out of the shadows, he heard the sound of labored breathing behind him. His lungs held his breath captive for several heartbeats. Sweat beaded his face. His mind screamed, “Run,” but only his heart raced. Fear petrified his limbs.

  He looked over his shoulder. Only yards away, the massive bull shook its head from side to side, one hoof pawing the ground. Between the rickety walls, a shaft of light flickered against a stream of blood oozing from the animal’s head. A fresh cry rose from the bull’s throat as it threw its head upward before charging. Flecks of blood and saliva flew through the air. As they landed on his cheek and lips, the old man felt their warmth, his gasp drawing their sickly sweetness into his mouth.

  With unleashed rage, the animal thundered across the space between them. Kramer flung himself sideways, meeting the floor with cruel impact. He watched in
disbelief as the bull failed to correct its course, savagely ramming a stanchion beyond him. Once. Twice. A third time. With another deafening roar, the bull turned. Blood dripped from the wound made even greater by the animal’s own savagery.

  Facing the enraged animal, Kramer’s body trembled. He lay on his back, dragging himself backward with his elbows—pushing with his heels. Safety lay behind him within the confines of the stanchions lining the barn wall. If only he could squeeze himself through the metal bars in time.

  Blood traced a path along the bull’s glazed eyes. The huge head wavered, then pointed directly at him. Kramer froze. The bull’s bellow ricocheted from the barn walls, vaporizing the old man’s hopes of self-preservation. Pain surged through his body as inch by inch, he tried to reach the metal bars behind him.

  The bull snorted, expelling air and blood, creating a design in red at its feet. Kramer’s lungs labored to pull in each new breath.�The metallic smell of blood mingled with the pungent odors of manure and hay.

  “Dear God, help me.”

  Just two more feet.

  In horror, Hank Kramer watched the bull charge as terror ripped a scream from his throat.

  10

  Neil piled into the passenger seat of Ray’s squad car. “It’s gotta be the same guy. It has to be.”

  Ray turned out of the station parking lot. “We may have lucked out. Now let’s hope we can cash in on it.”

  Neil was pumped. “There he was, just waiting for his order. What were the odds I’d walk in and park myself next to him?”

  “Slim to none unless you consider how much time you spend at The Copper Kettle, stalking Amy.”

  Ignoring the dig, Neil’s head bobbed as he tapped out a rhythm on his knees. “Fate. That’s what it has to be.”

  Ray turned down the main drag and lit a cigarette.

  Neil opened his window. “I thought you quit.”

  “I’ll quit again tomorrow.”

  As they passed through the part of town residents referred to as the food belt, the smell of Ray’s cigarette couldn’t mask the scents coming from the restaurants—or the heady aroma of cinnamon buns coming from Weidemeyer’s.