by Liliana Hart
Chapter Seven
The weather Wednesday night turned nasty, with freezing rain and blistering winds. Any chance of ice on the roads made drivers insane, and all of his deputies were out working crashes. The sand trucks were out in full force, and all the businesses closed early. Being from Pennsylvania, where they had real winter, the precautions blew his mind.
He’d been so busy with the storm that he hadn’t realized Agatha, Springer, and James hadn’t made it back from the coroner’s office yet. A flash of worry spread through him just as the bell jangled over the front door and the three of them walked in, bundled up in scarves and sheriff’s office wool caps in an unflattering shade of green.
Agatha unwrapped herself and hung her damp things on the umbrella stand in the corner. Her boots were wet and muddy and her cheeks were flushed red. She looked like she could still be in school, and he was reminded, not for the first time, of the age difference between them. It was something that had bothered him at first, but he’d realized quickly he was going to have to get over it.
“You’d think the three of you had been out in the tundra,” Hank said, coming into the open area to meet them. He’d spent too much time behind his desk and he was stiff. “Y’all need thicker blood.”
Agatha rolled her eyes. “As far as I’m concerned, this is the tundra. I don’t know how you’re wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Unless you just like to show off your muscles.”
Hank’s lips twitched. “That’s just a bonus. This is perfect weather.”
“Remind me to never live in the North,” Agatha said. “This Texas girl needs flip-flops.”
“So noted,” Hank said.
“How busy has it been?” James asked. “We passed Rodriguez and Johnson working a crash on the way back.”
“It’s been non-stop,” Hank said. “I’ve been fielding phone calls about power outages and blocked roads. I went ahead and implemented a curfew, but I’ve got every available deputy out trying to get people off the roads and back home safely. I never thought I’d say it, but shutting everything down is the best way to go. You people do not know how to drive in this stuff.”
“You’re one of us now, Sheriff,” James said, grinning. “You’ve probably lost your touch.”
Hank grunted and remembered the close call he’d had a couple of hours earlier when he’d decided to drive around to check the roads.
“How’d the autopsy go?” he asked, nodding at Springer, who hadn’t said a word since they’d come inside. He was still wrapped in his coat.
James slapped Springer on the back. “He did great. He turned a nice shade of green, but he didn’t puke on the body and he didn’t pass out. I call that a win.”
“Good job, Springer,” Hank said. “Do we have an official cause of death?”
“Blunt force trauma to the head,” Agatha said, stifling a yawn.
James had a manila envelope in his hand and unearthed the contents on the counter. It contained photographs and copies of the diagrams the coroner had drawn. Hank noticed Springer looked away.
Agatha spread out the photos and then said, “The depressed skull fracture was comminuted with broken pieces of cranial bone displaced inwardly. The blow was so significant that it breached two of the eight bones that form the cranial portion of the skull. The force of impact ruptured underlying structures, including surrounding membranes, blood vessels, and brain."
“The blow also caused immediate concussion along with a laceration that tore through the epidermis and the meninges. Because the injury introduced an outside environment to the brain, the coroner classified it as a compound fracture. The coroner said as soon as the middle meningeal artery was severed, Mr. Grant was dead.”
“That must’ve been one heck of a whack to the head,” Hank whistled through his teeth.
“Yeah, that was the coroner’s unofficial analysis,” Agatha said. “Slivers of wood were also recovered from the area of the wound.”
“Where he hit his head on the desk,” Hank said.
“Bingo,” she said, nodding. “But that would have only given him a mild concussion.”
“Boss,” James said. “If you look at the magnified areas of the wound, you can see a definite pattern in the unbroken skin. It may give us an idea of the kind of weapon the killer used.
“The pattern didn’t look familiar to me,” Agatha said. “Does it ring any bells with you?”
“It could be anything from a pipe to a parking meter for all I know,” Hank said with a grimace. “But once we get a response from the FBI lab on the metallic flakes, it should clear up what the marks are. I called in a couple of favors, so we shouldn’t have to wait too long for answers.”
“Fingerprints haven’t turned up anything so far,” James said. “It’s a slow process, but most of them are from the victim. Any oddities are partials or indistinguishable. Maybe we’ll catch a break there.”
“What’s the word from the gossip mill?” Hank asked. He’d been a part of the community long enough to know that details spread like wildfire in the small town. Oftentimes things were exaggerated, but there was usually a kernel of truth in there somewhere.
“I talked to my mom earlier,” Springer said, piping in for the first time. “She said everyone at the country club is still in shock. He was a good man and well liked.”
“What about his wife?” Agatha asked.
Springer grimaced. “She’s not so well-liked, but she’s an intimidating force, so no one bucks against her too often.”
“We still need to talk with Bud Grant,” Hank said. “I was planning on driving back out to the Grant’s, but the storm rolled in and created bedlam. We’ll go out first thing in the morning, but let’s run an initial check on him and see what his finances are like. Each of the kids might be entitled to a payout with daddy gone. And from what I’ve heard, Bud doesn’t seem like the type who plans to work for a living.”
“I’ll do it, Sheriff,” Springer volunteered. “I’m going to stick around and then sleep at my parent’s tonight in case they need help. They live just around the corner.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Hank said. “See everyone in the morning.” Then he whispered to Agatha. “I got us takeout from the Taco and Waffle before they closed down for the night.”
“You’re so resourceful,” Agatha said, batting her eyes. “It’s just one of the many things I love about you.”
“You’re not fooling me,” he said. “You just love tacos.”
Chapter Eight
Thursday
Hank woke early the next morning. The fact that his brain had never really turned off during the night had led to restless sleep, and he figured he was better off up and checking on his deputies than tossing and turning in bed.
The wind whipped and howled against the windows, and he stood in the kitchen, looking out the sliding glass door and into the back yard. He had his usual breakfast—a banana and Ensure—and wished he’d put on a pair of socks. The travertine tile was freezing beneath his bare feet.
“You sure do think loud,” Agatha said from behind him.
“You’re up early,” he said, leaning down to give her a kiss. She grunted and went to the coffeemaker, and he hid a grin. Agatha was not a sociable morning person, which is why she chose to run first thing every morning. It gave her time to wake up. The days she couldn’t run—well, those days were best approached like poking a lion with a stick.
She’d left the door to her bedroom open, and he was still amazed with what she’d managed to do with the space that had previously been nothing but four white walls. He’d wanted her to feel at home, and he’d already had some remodels in mind when he’d bought the house a couple of years before. But he wanted Agatha to have input too.
She still treated it like it was his house, and she was only a tenant. But he didn’t want her to feel that way at all. He wanted this to be their home.
“Do you mind if I go with you to talk to Bud Grant?” she asked, squinting at the button on the coffe
e maker.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ve already called in to check on the roads. There are a couple of icy spots in higher elevated areas, but the ground is still too warm for them to be too bad. Schools and businesses are all going to open a couple of hours late.”
“Good,” she said. “Let’s take my Jeep. The roads heading out to the Grant place will be pretty muddy.”
Hank grunted in assent.
“Springer texted a few minutes ago,” she said once she’d taken the first sip of coffee.
Hank watched the life slowly seep into her until her eyes were alert. “And what did Springer say?” he prompted.
“He’s been up all night trying to get into Grant’s computer.”
“Any luck?”
“Not yet,” she said.
An hour later they were both showered and dressed, and they quick-stepped through a chilly drizzle towards Agatha’s Jeep Wrangler under the carport. That was the thing about old houses, they rarely came with a garage.
Springer had a productive night, because Hank found the background check he’d run on Bud Grant waiting for him in his email. He tried to occupy himself from Agatha’s driving by reading Springer’s email. It wasn’t easy. He hated not being the one behind the wheel.
“Tell me about Bud Grant,” she said, making a turn entirely too fast in his opinion.
“He’s got a few speeding tickets, a drunk and disorderly, and a DUI under his belt, but all were dismissed. He was accused of rape at a frat party a few years ago, but it was hushed up and it looks like a settlement was made so charges weren’t filed. Basically, it looks like his parent’s money has kept him out of jail.”
“I guess he doesn’t learn from his mistakes,” she said.
“Or he expects mommy to clean up the mess after him,” Hank answered.
It was just after eight-thirty by the time the pulled into the U-shaped driveway. A woman came to the door Hank didn’t recognize, but Agatha waved at her.
“Audrey Pierce,” she said. “She’s one of the country club regulars.”
“And?” Hank asked.
“My mother always said to keep my mouth shut if I don’t have anything nice to say about anyone.”
Hank snorted and put the car in park. And then he and Agatha walked back to the front door of the farmhouse.
“Well, Agatha Harley,” Audrey said, looking her over from head to toe disapprovingly. “It’s been years since I’ve seen you. I don’t think we travel in the same circles.”
Audrey was a small, thin woman with black hair cut in a stylish bob. She had a streak of silver in the front, reminding him of Cruella de Vil, and her eyes had the kind of surprised wideness about them that only came with too much plastic surgery.
“No, ma’am,” Agatha said at the slight.
“I’ve heard all about the little books you write,” she went on. “Such a nice hobby.”
He watched Agatha’s jaw clench and was surprised at her restraint.
“It’s much more than a hobby,” Hank cut in. “She’s one of the bestselling authors in the world.”
Her gaze turned toward him and he arched a brow, daring her to say something else about Agatha.
“And who is this?” she asked, her eyes returning to Agatha. “Is this the new boyfriend? I’d heard you’d moved in together. What would your mother say about that, dear?”
“She’d say to do what’s best for me and ignore the busybodies,” Agatha said sweetly.
“I’m Sheriff Davidson,” Hank broke in before the woman could retort. “We’re here to speak with Bud Grant.”
She straightened her spine and faced Hank square on. “Which is exactly why I’m here. To be the gatekeeper for the family. They’ve suffered a terrible loss, and they don’t need harassment. They need you out there finding who did this. I’m sure the taxpayers would agree.”
“I’ve never heard that one before,” Hank said good-naturedly, though he had more than he could count.
“Evelyn and the children are all still sleeping. I’ll make sure to give them the message that you paid a call when they wake up.”
“No need,” Hank said, his smile never leaving his face. “We don’t need to see anyone but Bud. So maybe you can let him and the concerned taxpayers know that we’ll speak to him here or down at the station.”
Audrey’s mouth dropped open in shock. “I beg your pardon?”
“We’ll wait in here,” Hank said, walking past her into the front parlor where they’d spoken with Mrs. Grant previously. Agatha followed him in and stood in front of the fireplace.
By the time Hank had turned around again Audrey was gone. Hopefully to get Bud.
“Holy cow,” Agatha said. “I thought she was going to punch you.”
“Nah, I was nice. Didn’t you see my smile?”
“Yeah, just like before a shark eats it’s prey,” she said. “I don’t think you can count on her vote.”
“Good thing I’m not running for sheriff then.”
They waited a good fifteen minutes before they heard someone coming down the stairs. And then Bud Grant stumbled into view in stained gray sweatpants and a thin white t-shirt, his thinning hair mussed and stubble thick on his face.
“I’m going to file a complaint,” he said, coming in and falling onto the couch. “This is harassment.”
“You’re free to file a complaint,” Hank said. “But you’ll have a hard time convincing anyone of harassment since this is the first time we’ve spoken. Surely of all the classes you’ve taken through the years you learned something about the law.”
“Whatever,” Bud said. “What do you want?”
“We want to talk about your father,” Hank said.
“Someone killed him,” Bud said. “And you should be out there looking for the killer instead of rousting me.”
“When did you get into town?” Hank asked.
“Yesterday,” he said, shrugging.
“How’d you get here?” Hank asked. “I didn’t see a car out front.”
“I drive a little MG Roadster. Bright yellow. Can’t miss it.”
“Did you and your father get along?” Hank asked.
“Well enough,” Bud said. “We mostly stayed out of each other’s way. He was old and set in his ways, and we didn’t really see eye to eye. He didn’t really like doing much besides work. Sometimes he played golf.”
“What was it you didn’t see eye to eye about?”
Bud shrugged. “Life mostly. He thought I was wasting time and his money in school. He thought it was time I settle down and find a career. That kind of thing. Didn’t matter. Mom always understood me better.”
“When was the last time you and your father spoke?” Hank asked.
“I don’t remember,” he said. “It’s been awhile.”
“Thanks for your time,” Hank said, coming to his feet. He could tell Bud was surprised by the abrupt departure. “We’ll see ourselves out.”
“That’s what you woke me up for?” he asked, incredulously.
“Yep,” Hank said, and gave him a smile that made him shrivel.
“He was lying about not knowing when the last time he spoke to his father was,” Agatha said once they’d gotten back on the road. She took the corner slowly, remembering how slick the gravel and mud road had been on the way out.
“That’s not all he was lying about,” Hank said.
“The car?” she asked.
Hank nodded. “Exactly. Bud’s a moron, and his parent’s money has bought him out of every troubled situation he’s ever been in. That MG Roadster was parked under the carport when we came to notify Mrs. Grant about her husband. So either Bud didn’t drive it into town, or Mrs. Grant was lying when she said Bud was still in Austin.”
“She’s used to covering for him,” Agatha said. “If she had even a suspicion that Bud might have committed murder, it was probably second nature to lie and cover for him.”
“Or she’s in on it too,” Hank said.
“If
he’s our killer, maybe he was dumb enough to leave the murder weapon in his car.”
“I’m going to put James on this,” Hank said. “We’ll cook up something and then get Bud to come into town.”
“How is that going to get us access to search his car?” Agatha asked.
“I noticed in the report Springer sent that the license plates are expired on his precious car. Makes sense to me that James would pull him over for the violation.”
“Oh,” Agatha said, a smile spreading across her face. “Makes perfect sense.”
Chapter Nine
“Hey, Sheriff,” Springer said when they finally made it back to the office. It had started to drizzle again, and the drive back had been slow.
“Springer,” Hank said, nodding. “Anything new for us?”
He hung up his coat and then used the Keurig to make a cup of hot tea, then he put in coffee for Agatha.
“Yes, Sir,” Springer said. “But we should take it into your office.”
Hank nodded and handed Agatha her coffee, and then he closed the door of his office behind them.
“I finally got into Grant’s files,” Springer said excitedly. “I’m guessing he hired someone to input thirty years worth of files, because it’s all in there. Honestly, some of the programs he has are pretty high tech. I’d be surprised if a guy his age was that tech savvy.”
“I read in the file that he’s got a receptionist that comes in three days a week,” Hank said. “She was off the day he was killed, but James went to interview her. She didn’t have access to his computer because of the sensitive data, but I’m sure she can tell us the name of the company he used.”
“What about his appointment book?” Agatha asked. “And why didn’t the receptionist keep his appointments?”
“She told James she tried to keep his calendar straight when she first started working there,” Hank said. “But he kept making appointments with clients that he didn’t want to put on the books. Apparently, some of his wealthier clients didn’t want record of who handled their financials. So he’d make the appointments himself and leave her in the dark. So she gave up keeping the calendar. She comes in to pay bills, make postal runs, and run Interference with his regular clients if need be. She said it was an easy job.”