by Tami Hoag
The reports from the BCA lab were spread out on the desk in front of him, the initial complaint report number neatly typed at the top, reducing Jarrold Jarvis's death to eight impersonal digits. He had been over every statement, every angle of every theory. He had read over Jarrold's black book, the Who's Who of sleazy deals in state politics. More heads than Jarrold's were going to roll because of that book. Minnesota was a state of squeaky-clean politics. One whiff of this little pile of shit and voters would be on a rampage. But how exactly the book tied in to Jarvis's death, Dane was no longer sure. His head felt ready to bust as he started the wheels turning again, trying to sort it all out and coming up with an answer that couldn't be argued away as being merely the simplest solution.
Beyond his door he could hear the office coming to life for the day. Even though it was only seven-thirty, people were filing in. The scent of Lorraine's coffee brewing in the break room drifted in. Already the phones were ringing off the hook, and Dane could imagine the news hounds gathering in a ragged, hungry pack outside the courthouse, lying in wait for him.
A sharp rap sounded on his door, then it swung open and Lorraine stuck her head in, her eyes widening in motherly alarm behind the lenses of her glasses.
“My stars, you look like death!” she gasped as she let herself in. She slapped a handful of pink message slips to the bosom of her blue shirtwaist while the other hand carried on efficiently, independently, straightening files, snatching up his coffee mug. “How long have you been here?” She curled her nose at the sludge in the bottom of his cup. “What are you drinking?”
“I think it's motor oil.” His weary gaze went to the message slips. “What have you got for me?”
“Mostly calls from reporters.” She set the cup down on the edge of the desk and sorted through the notes. “A call from the sheriff in Olmsted County. A call from St. Mary's that says there's been no change in Rich Cannon's condition. Three calls from Charlie Wilder about a special session of the town council set for tonight.”
“Calling me on the carpet,” Dane mumbled, scratching at his morning beard. “Wanting to know if all the lunatics are going to be locked up in time for the parade.”
“I also have someone on the line about that missing tourist.”
He looked up, brows drawing together in puzzlement while his brain spun in neutral. “The what? Oh, yeah. Shit. Who's handling it?”
“Mark. I think he wants to talk to you—”
“I don't have time right now. Have him deal with it. I'm not taking calls from anybody. And lose the rest of that crap—except the message from Olmsted. Leave that here.” Already his gaze was shifting back to the mess on his usually immaculate desk. “And, Lorraine? I'll be your sex slave for life if you bring me a fresh cup of your coffee.”
She clucked her tongue at his language, but blushed a bit anyway as she went out into the hall, lifting her nose primly as she passed Yeager.
“Don't try to fight it, Lorraine,” he drawled, mouth curling in a lazy grin. “We both know you're wild about me.”
She pranced away without comment, and Yeager chuckled as he shuffled wearily into the office. Boozer followed him, nose sniffing the air for a stray scent of food. The dog stuck his head in the wastebasket, rooting down through a ream of crumpled paper, and resurfaced with a half-eaten sandwich.
“Roast beef on whole wheat,” Yeager commented, slumping down in the visitor's chair. “Lucky dog.” The Labrador scarfed down the sandwich in two bites, belched, and flopped over on the floor to rest. Yeager turned his attention to Dane. “Son, you look like hard times on the hoof.”
“I look like I'm related to you,” Dane said dryly. Yeager was his usual rumpled self, still in the clothes he had worn yesterday. This morning he had an excuse, Dane reminded himself, taking in the agent's bloodshot eyes and the lines of strain on his square, honest face. “How's Jolynn?”
He sighed and rubbed a crick in his neck. “They finally let her go to sleep. I promised I'd bring her a piece of Phyllis's German chocolate cake for when she wakes up. Thought I'd grab a little breakfast while I was at it. I saw your truck in the lot as I was going by. You want to come?”
The idea of one of Phyllis's cholesterol-laden breakfasts had his stomach grumbling, but Dane shook his head. “No, thanks.”
“What's all this mess?”
“I'm going over everything again.”
The look on Yeager's face clearly said he thought Dane had gone over the edge. “Why? Our boy is lying in the hospital in Rochester.”
“Maybe.”
Yeager's face colored from the gray of exhaustion to a healthy, angry red. He sat ahead on his chair, shoulders squared aggressively. “What maybe? Jesus, he tried to kill Jolynn!”
“I know,” Dane said calmly. “But that doesn't mean he killed everybody.”
“He admitted to killing Fox.”
“But not Jarvis.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Yeager fell back, settling in for a siege. “It follows,” he said, checking his temper.
“Does it?” Dane lifted the report on trace evidence. “They found blue cotton fibers on the back of Jarvis's shirt. Blue cotton, like from a work shirt. Rich Cannon never did a lick of physical work in his life.”
As much as he wanted Cannon to be guilty, Yeager had to admit he'd never seen the man in anything but his spiffy young-senator outfits. Cannon's fashion sense had irked him because he thought maybe Jolynn went for that sort of man and he could hardly claim to be a candidate for GQ. “So maybe he put this work shirt on to keep from getting blood on his sixty-dollar tie. Or maybe he hired someone to do the deed. Maybe he paid Fox to kill Jarrold, then whacked him to keep Fox from blackmailing him. I like that idea. It's—”
“Neat,” Dane finished, the word tasting as bitter as stale coffee on his tongue.
“The way cases ought to be,” Yeager declared. “What got you going on this? Last night you thought Cannon was our man too.”
“Something Elizabeth said.” A lot of things Elizabeth had said. About him, about letting his preconceptions cloud his judgment, about taking the easy way out. But also an impression she had gotten looking at the murder from a woman's perspective. “About the way Jarvis was killed. About the kind of hate it would take to kill a man that way. She said it struck her as a crime of passion.”
“Yeah. Cannon had a passionate need to rid himself of an overbearing, manipulative father-in-law. He gets out from under Jarvis's thumb and his wife inherits a bundle.” He reached across the desk and plucked up the black book. “All the evidence we need is right here.”
“There are a lot of names in that book,” Dane said. “Ellstrom, for one. He owed Jarrold a wad of money and he's been screwing Helen Jarvis in his spare time.”
“Man, there's an ugly thought,” Yeager said with a shudder. Dane's expression never altered. He took a deep breath and contemplated for a moment. “You don't really see him as a killer, do you? I mean, Jesus, he's a deputy.”
“I didn't see Rich as a killer either,” Dane said. He sat back and rubbed his hands over his face, scratching his palms over his morning beard. He was exhausted, not just physically, but emotionally, psychologically. Tired of having his world turned upside down and inside out. Now that Elizabeth had gotten the blinders off him, he saw too many possibilities, too many suspects, too many motives, and all of it saddened him beyond words. It was one thing to know the world could be an ugly, brutal place. It was quite something else to look at your home, your haven, your sanctuary, and see the same ugliness, the same brutality.
“I'm not saying Ellstrom did it. I'm just saying there are more possibilities than the easiest one.”
Groaning as he moved joints that had spent a long night in a chair reincarnated from the Spanish Inquisition, Yeager forced himself to his feet. “If you want to go on with this, you'll have to come over to the Cup. I can't think on an empty stomach. My body is a finely tuned machine that needs to be refueled at regular intervals.”
> “Pass,” Dane said absently as yet another possibility began nibbling at the edge of his consciousness. His brows pulled together as he stared at the lab report. Crime of passion . . . “I need to go check something out.”
Yeager shrugged. “Suit yourself. Let me know if it pans out. I'll be at the hospital with Jolynn.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob and a look of wonder came over his face, easing the lines of strain. “She's the one, you know,” he said. “I am well and truly in love.”
Dane forced a smile. “Congratulations.”
Yeager gave him a long, thoughtful look as he rubbed a hand against his grumbling belly. “You ought to give it a try, son. Might improve that churlish disposition.”
Dane offered a rude suggestion and turned back to the report.
“I plan to, buddy.” Yeager grinned. “Just as soon as Jolynn feels up to it.”
ELIZABETH DRAGGED A HAND THROUGH HER HAIR AND yawned hugely as she poured her first cup of coffee of the day. Getting only four hours sleep was a habit she had every intention of breaking just as soon as things around here settled into some semblance of normalcy. If that ever happened.
She had already put a call in to the hospital to check on Jolynn, and one to St. Mary's to see if she could weasel an update on Rich, but the Rochester hospital system—which included the world-famous Mayo Clinic—was no stranger to celebrities, famous and infamous, and they kept a tighter lid on gossip than the White House staff.
“How's Miz Nielsen?” Trace asked, shuffling into the kitchen. He was already dressed for the day in jeans and white T-shirt, the enduring uniform of the teenage boy. His bruises painted a rainbow across his face. His hair stood up in a little rooster tail at the crown.
Elizabeth resisted the urge to lick her fingers and smooth it down as she had when he'd been little. He wasn't little anymore; he was on the brink of manhood. She was still warmed by the thought that he had actually waited up for her the night before.
“She'll be fine in a few days. What are you doing up?”
He stepped around a sawhorse and went to the refrigerator. “I've gotta get to work. Cleaning calf pens at Carlson's today.” He pulled out a carton of orange juice and sniffed at the contents.
“Don't you drink out of that carton, Trace Lee,” Elizabeth snapped automatically in Mother's Tongue. He rolled his eyes and went in search of a glass. “Do you need a ride?”
“Naw. It's just a couple miles. I'll ride my bike.”
Elizabeth started to say it wouldn't be any trouble, but realized Trace was at an age where it wasn't exactly cool to have your mother drive you around. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he stood at what was left of the counter, drinking juice and eating Nilla Wafers out of the box. Maybe by next spring they would be able to pool their resources and buy him a secondhand jalopy.
“We have to get you some new glasses,” she said, drawing her robe closer together at her throat.
Trace gulped the last of his juice, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and bolted, brushing a kiss to her cheek as he passed her on his way to the door. “Tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder.
He passed Aaron in the doorway as the Amishman entered, toolbox in hand, and was gone with a slap of the screen door.
Elizabeth's mouth curved in a smile. “Sixteen. Everything seems so urgent at that age. What were you like at sixteen, Aaron?”
He flicked a glance at her as he settled his carryall on the plywood table. She looked as though she had just gotten out of bed. Her hair was rumpled, wild and tempting, a cloud of black silk that fell past her shoulders. Delilah must have had such hair to tempt Samson. She was dressed in a sinfully thin wrap of shimmering emerald green. It fell to her ankles, covering her, but was held together only by a belt at the waist. It parted readily, giving tantalizing glimpses of her long bare legs as she moved idly toward him. She seemed to think nothing of it—how seductive she was, how tempting to a man who had been without a wife for so long. Or perhaps she knew full well . . .
“I worked,” he said shortly, forcing his gaze back to his tools. An image flashed through his mind of her stopping in front of him and opening the green wrap, baring her breasts to him. His manhood stirred and he squelched the wicked thoughts ruthlessly. She was not for him—only as a test, and he had vowed to pass all tests God sent to him.
Elizabeth slid onto a kitchen chair, tucking her robe around her legs as best she could. She sipped her coffee and watched as Aaron selected an array of tools for the task of dismantling the last of the lower cupboards. He laid them out in neat order, like a surgeon preparing for a heart transplant. He was clearly in another sour mood, his face as grim as an undertaker's. He seemed to be concentrating very hard on not looking at her. Probably because of what she was wearing, she thought. Well, if a man insisted on showing up at a lady's home before eight o'clock in the morning, he would just have to live with her the way he found her. Still, his coldness stung a little. She had started to think of him as a friend, but he suddenly didn't seem to want anything to do with her.
Determined to draw him out, she launched into a detailed account of what had happened to Jolynn. Aaron said nothing until she had finished the story and had waited a good long minute for him to comment.
“Dane Jantzen, then, has his killer,” he said softly, turning to the cupboard with a pry bar.
“So he thinks. I'm not so sure myself.” She polished off her coffee, contemplated a second cup, and decided against it. She watched Aaron as he crouched down and peered into the cupboard. He seemed completely unmoved by everything she had told him, as if it had taken place on another planet. His indifference irritated her, rubbing against the frayed ends of her temper like a cool breeze across exposed nerve endings.
“You know,” she said sharply, snugging the belt of her robe as she rose, “this is your community too. I don't see how you can just sit back and play with your suspenders and pretend none of this is happening right across the goddamn road from your house.”
Aaron jerked to his feet, anger surging through him. He curled his fingers around the pry bar until his knuckles turned white even as his face was flushing red. “Take not the name of the Lord God in vain in my presence!” he thundered.
Elizabeth took a step back, his outburst shocking her heartbeat into a quicker rhythm. “I—I'm sorry,” she mumbled.
Aaron went on as if he hadn't heard her. “The Gemei is my only community. I answer only to God, not to the English!”
His eyes were blazing behind his spectacles, bright with the fire of zealousness. He seemed suddenly bigger and more alive, as if the man inside him had finally burst through the confining shell of his self-discipline. Elizabeth witnessed the metamorphosis with a sense of wonder tinged with fear. The view she had had of the Amish—of Aaron—was of emotional austerity and quiet control. His show of temper threw her off balance.
It seemed to throw Aaron as well. He stepped back, pulled back within himself, dropped his gaze to the floor.
“Forgive me,” he mumbled, staring at Elizabeth's painted toenails as a prayer from childhood ran through his head. Jesu hor dein kleins kind, vergil mir alle meine Sund. Jesus, hear your little child, forgive all my sins.
“No,” Elizabeth said. “I'm the one who should apologize. I'm running on a real lean mix these days. I'm afraid it doesn't take much to get me to shoot off my mouth.” She sighed heavily, suddenly desperate for a cigarette. “I'll let you get to work,” she mumbled, backing toward the dining room. Aaron turned away from her without a word.
They would never be friends in the true sense, she thought, her heart sinking. They existed on different planes. Their backgrounds, their philosophies, were too diverse. It would have been easier to bridge the gap between two centuries than the gap between their cultures. Elizabeth knew she would never be able to fully understand his ways, and he would probably never view her as anything other than “English.” Just as the people of Still Creek would probably never see her as anything
other than “that southern woman.”
Restless and weary, she padded barefoot through the dining room, where the aroma of mouse was finally starting to fade, into the living room, where her notes on the Jarvis murder were stacked on the coffee table along with a mountain of unopened bills and the pack of photographs she had picked up at Snyder's and never gotten around to looking at. After flicking on a Bonnie Raitt tape, she settled into a corner of the sofa, curling her legs beneath her like a cat. She wanted to shower and shave her legs before going to see Jolynn, but it was too early to get into the hospital and she really hadn't worked up the energy yet anyway.
There was a nearly empty pack of Virginia Slims half buried on the table, and she leaned over to unearth it with the tips of her fingers, ending up with half the junk from the table in her lap and one slightly crushed cigarette dangling from her fingertips.
“Beggars can't be choosers, sugar,” she whispered, lighting up and drawing the smoke deep into her lungs. Rotten habit, she thought idly as she blew a stream of exhaust toward the ceiling, just like the scotch. It seemed if she hadn't had bad habits, she wouldn't have had any habits at all Smoking, drinking, men . . .
While Bonnie lamented in her smoky voice that it was too soon to tell, Elizabeth began sorting through the papers and notes in her lap, all her hunches and half-formed theories looking thin and silly in the light of day. Maybe she was just being perverse not accepting Rich as the perpetrator of all evil in Still Creek. Maybe she just didn't want to agree with Dane about anything. Maybe keeping herself at odds with him was a mechanism to keep herself from getting too close. If that was the case, she was a day late and a dollar short.
Cannon had killed Carney Fox without compunction. He had tried to kill Jolynn. Why couldn't she picture him picking up a knife and slitting Jarrold Jarvis's throat?