Still Waters

by Tami Hoag

  They found Samuel Hauer in the barn, trimming the hooves of a massive Belgian workhorse. The old man was bent over, shoulder against the side of the big sorrel gelding, knees clamped around the horse's raised leg. He plied the pinchers with the skill of long practice, nipping off a crescent of hoof, then trading the pinchers for a rasp and filing the edge smooth. Yeager's dog snatched up the discarded piece of hoof and flopped down in the straw to chew on it.

  “Samuel,” Dane said with a nod.

  Hauer lowered the horse's leg and slowly straightened his back, a weary smile lighting his weathered face above his beard. “Dane Jantzen.”

  The two men shook hands and Dane introduced Yeager. Dane asked after the rest of the Hauer clan—all living away from home now, except Aaron, who had moved back after the accident that had taken his family. They chatted about the weather and the quality of the year's first hay crop. Finally Dane felt he could bring up the subject he had come to discuss without putting off the old Amishman.

  Samuel Hauer shook his head, his face grave. “Ruth and I was gone to Michah Zook's that night. Sylvia has the cancer of the stomach, you know.”

  Dane nodded. “I heard. That's a shame.”

  “They had her to the Mayo Clinic I don't know how long, but she's home now.” He shook his head again as he cleaned his rasp with a rag and slid it into his farrier's box. “She's not long for this world, Sylvia. She'll be with God soon.” He sighed. “Gotters Wille.”

  “What time did you get home?”

  “After dark. After the commotion had started across the road with the police cars and so on.” He unsnapped the gelding's halter and gave the big horse a pat on the rump, sending him clomping down the aisle to the door that opened into the dry lot.

  “Aaron was here,” Dane said. “Did he say anything to you about it? That he saw something, heard something?”

  The old man frowned as he took up a barn broom and slowly began to sweep the scraps of hoof cuttings into the gutter. “No.”

  “Could you talk to him, Samuel? This is very important. If he saw anything—a man, a car—it could help us catch a killer.”

  A sad smile bent Hauer's mouth. He reached down into the gutter for a crescent of hoof and tossed it to the yellow dog. The Labrador thumped his tail against the straw and rolled onto his back, groaning in ecstasy. “I'll talk to him, Dane Jantzen, but you know how Aaron is. Your justice is not Aaron's justice.”

  Dane gave the Amishman a long, level look. “It has to be this time, Samuel. You tell him that.”

  THEY WERE GOING FULL-TILT AT STILL WATERS. THE PEACE of the country morning was decapitated by the scream of power saws and the thump of pneumatic hammers. Workmen crawled over the skeleton of the main building like sailors in the rigging of a windjammer, shouting orders and gossip over the blare of Dwight Yokum on the portable boom box.

  Rich Cannon came out of the office trailer just as Dane and Yeager climbed down out of the Bronco. His step faltered as he saw them, but he managed to put on a plastic smile and alter his course. He was dressed to impress in brown summer wool trousers and a crisp cream-colored shirt. A silk tie with the stripe of an old British public school he probably couldn't have found on a map was knotted beneath his chin.

  He reached out with the tube of blueprints in his hand and tapped Dane on the shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie that seemed overt for their relationship. They had never been friends. They had been teammates half a lifetime ago. But then, considering the importance Rich still put on that time of his life, maybe that meant more to him than it did to Dane. Or maybe the bastard's sucking up to me, Dane thought.

  “What brings you guys out this way?” Rich asked, smile in place, gaze moving between the two lawmen.

  Yeager gave him a hard look. “You.”

  Dane cleared his throat. “We just had a few extra questions we thought you could help us with, Rich.”

  “Sure, a—” He glanced at his watch and shrugged, manufacturing a pained expression. “I haven't got a lot of time. I have to get to Rochester to meet with some party people. I'm launching my campaign during Horse and Buggy Days. You know, take advantage of the extra media coverage.”

  Yeager made a rude noise in his throat. Dane pretended not to notice. “This won't take long.” He nodded toward the building as he leaned a hip against the side of the Bronco. “I see you had a crew out here yesterday. Making up for lost time?”

  “Yeah, well, you know, deadlines are deadlines. We have to take advantage of this weather.”

  “Oh, well, you're good at that,” Yeager said. “Taking advantage.”

  Rich's brows snapped together. “What's that supposed to mean?”

  Dane gave an innocent shrug. “It means it looks like Jarrold left the reins in the hands of the right man. Did he happen to leave anything else in your hands?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the book where he kept track of who owed him money.”

  Rich rolled his eyes and staggered back a step, as if the utter lunacy of the question had knocked him off balance. “Oh, Jesus, you're not on that too?” he said, incredulous. “I thought it was bad enough when that bitch at the paper office started in on me.”

  Dane's jaw tightened. Rich didn't notice. He tucked the tube of blueprints under his arm and dug a pack of Pall Malls out of his shirt pocket. He shook one out and dangled it from his lip as he searched for his lighter. “What's all this cloak-and-dagger bullshit about a black book?”

  “It might have given someone a motive,” Yeager said.

  Rich lit up, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he shook his head, his gaze sliding to the building project. “Fox killed Jarrold for his pocket change. End of story. Catch the little shit and fry him.”

  “There is no capital punishment in the state of Minnesota,” Yeager pointed out.

  Rich gave him a belligerent look. “Figure of speech.”

  “We've been double-checking statements,” Dane said, drawing his old teammate's attention back to him. “There's a minor discrepancy you might be able to clear up for us.”

  “Sure.”

  “You said you went to Jolynn's around seven. She says it was more like eight-thirty.”

  “Yeah?” He arched a brow, then shrugged off the importance of the statement, looking away again as he tapped the ash off his cigarette. “Well, she's wrong. What can I say?” He flashed them a cocky grin. “I think her mind was on other things, you know? Some women are big on punctuality. Jo's talents lie elsewhere.”

  Dane stepped away from the Bronco just in time to block Yeager from hurling himself at Rich. The move seemed totally natural and relaxed, belying the tension that was simmering beneath his calm facade. He shot Yeager a warning glare as he sauntered to the hood of Cannon's Thunderbird and sat down.

  “Jolynn seems perfectly capable of reading a clock,” he said quietly, his gaze catching Rich's and holding it. “You have any reason to lie to me, Rich?”

  “No!” Cannon swore and tossed his cigarette down to grind it out with the toe of his wingtip. He paced around in a circle, wagging his head in disbelief. “Jeez, Dane, I can't even believe you're asking me this shit! So maybe I'm wrong about the time. Maybe I'm off by a few minutes. Big deal.”

  Yeager snagged him by the arm and jerked him to a standstill, leaning into his face. “A man is dead, hotshot. That's a pretty big fucking deal where I come from.”

  Rich yanked his arm free and stepped back, looking petulant. “Yeah, well, I didn't kill him.” He turned and looked Dane straight in the eye. “I didn't kill him.” His denial hung in the air with the smell of sawdust and cigarette smoke. He glanced at his watch again. “I have to go.”

  Dane eased himself off the hood of the Thunderbird and stepped away. Boozer gave the car's right rear wheel an extra spray of pee, then wandered over to flop down at his master's feet.

  “Everything about that guy smells like a horse's ass,” Yeager growled as they watched Rich Cannon drive away.

  “He's hidi
ng something,” Dane murmured, his gaze fixed on the retreating car, his mind sifting through theories he never would have wanted to associate with his town. “One thing is clear, partner. We've got to find that book.”

  ELIZABETH HUNG UP THE PHONE, PRESSED HER FINGERTIPS to her temples, and squeezed her eyes closed. The relentless pounding going on outside the Clarion office echoed inside her head until she wanted to scream. It had been going on for hours—the pounding outside and the headache. The judge's booth for the Horse and Buggy Days parade was being constructed right smack in front of the office, giving the judges a good view and ruining foot traffic into Elizabeth's business all in one fell swoop.

  She dug into her bottom desk drawer in search of more aspirin, but came up with nothing but an empty Excedrin bottle and half a bag of M&Ms. The screech of a drill penetrated the plywood covering the broken front window and pierced her eardrums, drilling right into the core of her brain. She dropped the M&Ms on the desktop, plugged her ears with her thumbs, and clamped her fingers down on the top of her head to keep it from splitting open.

  God was testing her. As He had that poor slob Job. She never had been able to figure out why Job hadn't gone stark raving mad and hacked his whole family to death with an ax. That was what she was fixing to do to the workmen outside—just as soon as the pain subsided enough for her to regain control of her motor skills.

  She had gone to bed with the last of that bottle of scotch Dane said she drank too much of, and gotten up with this lovely pounding head. A condition that had not been improved by five calls from businessmen canceling their advertising in the Clarion—most notably Garth Shafer, who had expounded on his reasons for ten earsplitting minutes.

  They were up shit creek, to put it mildly. Advertising was where newspapers—even little piss-ant papers like the Clarion—made their money. They couldn't afford to lose five advertisers. Especially when half of their customers hadn't paid their bills since man first landed on the moon. Shafer Motors had been their biggest, most reliable account. Now that money was gone and more was sure to follow if Shafer had his way.

  “Life's a bitch and then you die,” Elizabeth muttered as the drill started again.

  “Omigodyouwon'tbelieveit!” Jolynn squealed as she burst in through the back door.

  She charged through the room, sneakers pounding on the old wood floor, not even slowing down until she grabbed the end of the counter and wheeled around to lean against it. Her cheeks were flushed, her bosom heaving beneath her Harley's Texaco shirt. Her eyes were bright as marbles, staring out from beneath a tangled shock of bangs.

  “You won't believe it!” she repeated emphatically.

  Elizabeth peered up at her, eyes barely slitted open behind the lenses of her Ray-Bans. “I'm at a point where I'll believe just about anything,” she said softly, careful not to jar her throbbing head with any undue jaw movements. “White mice cause cancer. Elvis is alive and pumping gas in North Dakota. Go ahead. You can't shock me. I'm fixing to go to work for a tabloid when I get run out of this town. Screw the truth.”

  “Boyd Ellstrom is doing the wild thing with the Widow Jarvis.”

  For one blessed moment, absolute silence reigned. Elizabeth shoved her sunglasses on top of her head and squinted at Jolynn as she rose slowly from her chair. Excitement stirred inside her, filling her with a giddy kind of euphoria.

  “You liar,” she said, fighting a grin.

  Jolynn shifted anxiously from foot to foot, like a child in urgent need of a potty chair. “It's true. I stopped by to talk to Helen. You know—get her feelings about the aftermath of Jarrold's death, etcetera, etcetera, see if she knows anything about the book.” She snatched a breath, pushed her hair out of her eyes, and pressed on. “So she comes to the door in her bathrobe and she's acting all weird and trying to get rid of me. Says she doesn't know anything about any book and tells me Doc Truman has advised bed rest for her nerves. She gives me the bum's rush, shoos me out onto the porch, and shuts the door. Well, I'm thinking this is strange, even for Helen, and I decide to pull a Columbo—you know, ‘Excuse me, ma'am, just one more question.' I open the front door and guess who's standing in the hallway in his BVDs?”

  “Christ in a miniskirt!” Elizabeth breathed.

  “Close, but much uglier.”

  “Oh, my soul!” Elizabeth pressed a hand across her mouth, turned around in a circle, then plunked a hip down on her desk as vertigo threatened.

  Jolynn scooted around the end of the counter and snatched up the crumpled bag of M&Ms. “I want hazardous-duty pay for this,” she said, chuckling as she poured out a handful of candy. “If God had wanted women to see Boyd Ellstrom naked, He would have created him in the image of Mel Gibson.”

  “I wonder how long that's been going on,” Elizabeth mused. She pulled off her sunglasses and nibbled on the end of one temple as the wheels of possibility turned in her head. The unbalanced Helen with the ambitious Deputy Ellstrom. Ellstrom, who hadn't wanted the BCA called in on the murder.

  Jo popped three green M&Ms into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “I don't know, but it certainly adds an interesting twist to the story, doesn't it? The plot thickens.”

  “That it does, my friend,” Elizabeth murmured, remembering the predatory look in Ellstrom's eye as he had backed her into a corner in this very room. “That it does.”

  The drill started in again, and she winced as if the thing had struck a nerve.

  “I take it the hangover is hanging on,” Jo said.

  Elizabeth slid her a look. “You have a real grasp for the obvious, sugar.”

  “Just call me Scoop Nielsen.” She tossed the empty candy wrapper in the trash and moved toward the back door. “Come on, boss, I'll buy you a Coke. We'll go someplace where we can talk without the Black and Decker serenade.”

  They went to the back entrance of the Coffee Cup, where an assortment of lawn chairs sat in haphazard arrangement on an open porch that served as the employees' lounge during good weather and a sheltered spot for the trash Dumpster in the winter. Elizabeth lowered herself into a web chair, slipped off the camel-and-white spectator pumps she'd had made in Milan, and propped her stocking feet on the low porch rail, grateful for the sanctuary. She was in no mood to face another accusing glare from another native. News of the vandalism at Shafer Motors had run like wildfire through town, and, while Dane might not have had enough to charge Trace with, the citizens of Still Creek had tried him and found him guilty—and her along with him.

  Jolynn emerged from the door and held it open while Phyllis stepped outside, a tray of tall iced Cokes in her gnarled hands. The three of them settled back and sat in silence for a moment, savoring their drinks and the quiet. The scenery left a little something to be desired—a weedy, graveled alley that faced the back of Buzz Knutson's welding shop and lawn implement dealership. But someone had hung a trailing pink geranium from one of the porch posts, giving the spot some color and a fresh scent, and the day itself was pretty, if not the surroundings. The sky was a soft, cloudless blue, the breeze warm with just a hint of the humidity Elizabeth had been told would come in July.

  She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, pretending she was a thousand miles away, on a secluded beach on Paradise Island, with nothing to do but enjoy the feel of a man's strong hands as they rubbed suntan lotion into her back. Dane's hands.

  Cursing her wayward hormones, she snapped her eyes open and shot a sideways look at her companions. Jolynn was off in her own dreamworld. Phyllis, though, was watching her like a hawk, watery brown eyes wide, ruby lips pressed into a thin line.

  “What?” Elizabeth asked, sitting ahead and smoothing her long Ralph Lauren safari skirt. She lifted her hand to her cheek. “Have I got ink on me?”

  “I'm just wondering if you've got the mettle to stick it out here,” Phyllis said, then sucked on her straw. “It's not a bad town, you know. You're just here at the wrong time.”

  Elizabeth arched a brow. “Murder brings out the worst in people?”
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  “Adversity makes them close ranks. People are afraid. They band together with their own and leave outsiders to fend for themselves. I ought to know, I was an outsider thirty years ago.”

  Elizabeth sighed. Not only was she not “closing ranks” with the natives of Still Creek, she was holding up a spotlight to the town's flaws and warts and secrets. That was her job. How would they ever accept her if she insisted on doing it well?

  “They had to accept you,” she said dryly. “You give them food. All I give them is bad news and grist for the gossip mill.”

  “Things will settle down once Dane and Yeager nail whoever killed Jarvis,” Jolynn said. Still overheated from the excitement of catching Helen Jarvis with Boyd Ellstrom, she raised her glass and brushed it across her forehead, wondering what would become of her fledgling romance with Yeager once the case was solved. As regional agent, Rochester was his base of operations. Rochester wasn't so far away—if you had a car that ran on all cylinders. . . .

  “That might happen a little faster if we could get our hands on Jarrold's little book,” Elizabeth said. “If we could convince Dane the book exists.”

  “Oh, he's convinced,” Jolynn said, leaning around Phyllis to look at her friend. “Bret told me they were going to take another look at the interior of the Lincoln today in case it got wedged down in between the seats or something. I think you getting attacked convinced him.”

  Phyllis pricked her ears and went on point like a bird dog scenting a quail. “Bret?”

  “Agent Yeager,” Jolynn said primly, a hint of color staining her cheeks.

  “Well, I'm glad to be of service,” Elizabeth said irritably, too caught up in her own problems to catch Jo's reaction “He might have told me he decided to believe me,” she grumbled. “That man is the most stone-headed, stubborn, rude—”

  “Sounds like someone I know,” Jo said dryly.

  Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “I am not rude.”

  “Pardon me.”

  Phyllis watched her carefully, reading all the nuances of her expression as skillfully as any psychiatrist. She hadn't spent thirty years observing folks without learning a thing or three about human behavior.