CHAPTER 132
A LIGHT ON HIS phone glowed and the sheriff snatched up the handset. “Hoffner.”
“It’s Sheriff Studebaker. I’m glad I caught you.”
Hoffner relaxed. “Thank you for getting back to me so quickly.”
“I’m not sure you’ll want to hear what I’ve found out.”
“Bad news?”
“Strange news. Thanks to some fierce phone work by my staff this morning, we’ve found Calvin Whitman’s son.”
Hoffner’s mind landed on one of the leadership lessons his instructor had drilled into them: inclusion. “Hold on a minute, Sheriff. I’d like for my detectives to hear what you’ve got to say.”
He put the call on hold and studied the buttons on his desk phone. Finally, Hoffner hurried down the hall to the conference room. Everyone was clustered near a computer in the corner. “Is anybody working on county business today?” he demanded.
Munk exchanged an expressionless glance with Mitch. “Bernie’s helping us with Whitehead’s murder. You need to see this, Sheriff.”
“In a minute. Where’s Elliot?”
“What do you need?”
Hoffner flushed. “To transfer a call from my phone to the one in here.”
Truman spoke up. “I can do it.”
Hoffner nodded. Truman wove his way out of the room and was back in a matter of seconds. He moved the phone from the coffee counter to the long table and pointed to a flashing red light. “That line.”
Darla Stone reached for Mitch’s wheelchair but Munk scooted her out of the way and maneuvered Mitch away from the computer. She spoke quietly. “Sheriff?”
His gaze softened. “Yes?”
“I’m waiting to take Mitch home when he’s done, but I can wait outside if you’d like.”
“I trust your discretion, Darla.” Hoffner jabbed the button and everyone shifted to crowd near the table. “Sheriff Studebaker, are you still there?”
“I am.”
“You’re on speakerphone with the detectives and officers working Calvin Whitehead’s murder. You said you found his son?”
“Yes, Sheriff, we did. Turns out he was working up in Tennessee.” His voice crackled over the line and Truman jiggled the cord until the static cleared.
“And you said that’s strange?”
“He’s gone AWOL. Been missing for about six weeks now.”
Mitch motioned for Sheriff Hoffner’s attention, but he waved the detective away. “Why is that strange?”
“Because he’s a SWAT sharp shooter. A highly valued employee. His boss said Whitman’s never been a problem. They’ve checked his apartment and with his friends. There’s no sign of foul play. It’s like the man vanished into thin air.”
CHAPTER 133
CASS PUSHED OPEN THE door to The Golden Gate. Her unease with what Rob Conroy told them had grown during the drive from his apartment back to downtown. She struggled to imagine the kind of problem Junie could have developed with Moses Franklin in the short time she’d lived in Forney County. She spotted Stan Overheart helping a customer and waited on one of the padded chrome stools at the counter. “Is Junie working today?” she asked once they were alone.
“She had a headache so I sent her home early.”
“What do you know about her?”
“Tea?” When Cass nodded he poured them both a glass and sat next to her. “What’s up?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe nothing.”
Stan sipped his tea and straightened as his wife came to join them. “Cass is asking about Junie.”
“Why?” Sally asked.
Cass hesitated. Stan and Sally Overheart had spent most of their adult lives running a music shop in the Haight-Ashbury section of San Francisco. Their retirement to Arcadia more than a decade ago was prompted by Sally, who wanted to run a café in her hometown. They were hippies, tried and true, and although the Overhearts were a respected part of the Forney County community, they remained wary about official intrusion into their lives. “It’s probably nothing,” Cass said, “but Rob Conroy mentioned something that I want to ask Junie about.”
Stan raised an eyebrow. “Conroy the meth king?”
“That’s him.”
He looked at Sally and she nodded. “What do you want to know?”
“What’s Junie’s last name?” Cass asked.
“Archer.”
“She’s from Tennessee?”
“That’s what her license said.”
“Why did she come to Arcadia?”
Sally swiped at the counter with a damp rag. “She showed up one day and asked if we needed any wait staff. It was right after Mitch got hurt and you were suspended. The press was still here and it was crazy.” She smiled at Stan. “We hadn’t even thought that we needed help until she showed up, but she’s been a blessing. Junie’s a hard worker and doesn’t complain, no matter what we ask her to do.”
“But she’s very private,” Stan added. “When I’ve asked about her family, or where she grew up, she changes the subject. You get the feeling that she doesn’t want to talk about her past.”
“Have you noticed anything unusual about her?”
“Unusual how?”
“Has she done or said anything that makes you think she’s not who she says she is?”
Stan played with the end of his ponytail and looked at Sally. “Tell her.”
“I don’t think it’s any of our business.” Sally crossed her arms over her skinny chest. “Much less that of law enforcement.”
Gazes locked, Sally and Stan entered into a silent battle of marital wills that Cass observed with interest. Stan finally spoke. “Cass asked about unusual, and what she did is unusual.”
“I’m sure there’s a perfectly plausible explanation for it.”
“Do you trust Cass?”
His wife nodded.
“Then tell her what you saw.”
Sally scrubbed a non-existent spot on the counter before meeting Cass’s eyes. “If I tell you this and it has no bearing on whatever you need to know, will you forget it?”
“Yes.”
“This one afternoon, not long after Junie started working for us, I went to the ladies room and Junie came out of the men’s room.”
Cass looked back and forth between Stan and Sally. “Maybe she used the men’s because the ladies was occupied.”
“It was empty,” Sally said.
Cass raised an eyebrow. “Maybe she was cleaning.”
“Nope. Stan had already done that. And I wouldn’t even have noticed,” Sally said. “But the flush was wrong.”
“There’s a problem with one of the handles,” Stan explained. “It sticks and you get a double flush. Even if you jiggle it. The plumber says it’s a defect in the manufacturing.”
“I still don’t get it,” Cass said. “Why does it matter that the toilet double flushes?”
“It’s not the toilet handle that sticks,” Stan said. “It’s the handle to the urinal.”
CHAPTER 134
PETCHARD SLID TO A stop in Junie’s gravel drive and cut the truck’s engine. Vision narrowed to a green-tinged tunnel, he stormed to the porch and jabbed at the doorbell. The chime sounded clearly, and although he heard no movement over the air conditioner’s wheezing, he sensed the house growing still. He peered through the sheer curtains protecting the dirty window in the door, but the interior was dim. Stepping back, he took the time to turn and look around the yard. Petchard spotted the barn with its doors chained shut. He crossed the small yard and went up on his tiptoes to peek through a grimy window. Junie’s battered Honda was inside. She was home. And ignoring him. Or…
His gut clenched and Petchard whirled to face the house again. If Emmet Hedder was here, maybe Junie was trapped. In danger. Perhaps she hadn’t answered the doorbell because she couldn’t answer the doorbell. He dropped to a crouch and crept back to the farmhouse, easing around its perimeter. Curtains were tightly drawn over each window. A well pump clicked and whined in t
he backyard. As quietly as he could, he mounted the steps to the front porch again and reached for the doorknob. It refused to turn. He tiptoed back down, circled to the back of the house, and tried the kitchen door. The knob turned.
Petchard swallowed and pulled his gun from its holster, then slowly pushed inward.
CHAPTER 135
“SHERIFF STUDEBAKER? THIS IS Detective Mitch Stone. Can I ask you a question?”
Hoffner glared.
“Of course,” Studebaker answered.
Mitch leaned closer to the phone. “How certain are you that Calvin Whitman never had a female child?”
“While he lived here, he only had the one child, a son. But he may have had another child after he left Thayerville.”
“You told Sheriff Hoffner that Calvin Whitman Jr. was abused. What evidence do you have of that abuse?”
“Mostly rumors. But we had suspicions that Boyd Dudley, the man Whitman chose to care for his son, abused the boy. There was speculation that he let others abuse him, as well.”
“Sexually?” Kado almost whispered the word.
“Pardon?” Sheriff Studebaker asked.
Kado straightened. “This is Tom Kado, sir, forensic examiner. Was the abuse physical or sexual?”
“Probably both. It was one of those secrets that everybody knew but nobody talked about. There was speculation that Dudley sold the boy as a prostitute. Child services took him away from Dudley once, when he turned up at the emergency room with a cigarette burn on his neck.”
Darla’s eyes flashed and Mitch put his hand over hers. “They didn’t keep him?” he asked.
“Dudley told child services that the kid was prone to play with his matches and cigarettes, and burned himself.”
“They believed him?”
“They gave the kid back to him. Before he left Thayerville when he was sixteen, the boy had withdrawn from his friends and his teachers. He was a bright kid and did very well in school until his father died. Then his grades started to slip and his behavioral problems started.”
“What kind of problems?” Sheriff Hoffner asked.
“Fist fights, skipping school, drinking at an early age.” Sheriff Studebaker said. “The boy even wore make-up and dressed as a girl for a while. Apparently it was a fad with some of the musicians back then. I was relieved to find out he’d turned his life around and became a law officer. You seem focused on Whitman’s son. Do you think he’s involved in his father’s murder?”
“We have absolutely no evidence of that,” Sheriff Hoffner said.
“But we do have a woman who’s new in town. She bears a striking resemblance to the photograph of a young Sheriff Calvin Whitman that your department sent across,” Mitch added. “We’re trying to figure out who she could be.”
“What’s her name?” Sheriff Studebaker asked.
“Junie Archer.”
Static crackled on the line and Truman wiggled the cord.
“Sheriff?” Mitch asked.
“I’ll be damned,” Studebaker said slowly. “Calvin Whitman’s wife was an Archer. She died while giving birth to his son. Whitman named the child after himself. We called the boy Junior, or sometimes Junie or June. That’s a mighty big coincidence, but I suppose it’s possible that there are women named Junie Archer who have no relation to the Whitman family.”
“I doubt there are many who resemble Calvin Whitman so closely,” Mitch said. “Is it possible that Calvin Whitman, Jr. is a cross dresser?”
“A man who wears women’s clothes? I think he’d outgrown that stage by the time he left Thayerville, but I have no idea. The men on the Tennessee force had nothing but praise for him, so if he is dressing up, he’s doing it very quietly.”
Hoffman’s hoary eyebrows rose on his forehead. “What do you make of all this, Sheriff Studebaker?”
“It’s curious that a Junie Archer has turned up in the same town where Calvin Whitman was living. The Calvin Whitman Jr. on the Tennessee force was definitely a man.” He was silent for a moment. “I’d like to see a photograph of Junie Archer if you have one. But if you think she looks that much like Calvin Whitman, maybe the cross-dressing thing holds water. In your shoes, I’d want to talk to her. She could very well be the perp who murdered Calvin Whitman in your jurisdiction.”
“I don’t think so, Sheriff,” Mitch said slowly. “We believe it was the children of the men lynched in 1967 who killed him, and Whitman’s son who killed them.”
“How would Calvin Whitman Jr. even know those people? And why would he want to avenge the death of the man who abandoned him?”
“Maybe they deprived him of what he desperately wanted,” Mitch said. “The chance to kill the man who left him with that monster Boyd Dudley.”
CHAPTER 136
EMMET HEDDER WATCHED AS Junie turned up the fan on the rattling window unit and pressed the hand holding the gun against her temple. Beads of sweat dotted her upper lip and her face was pale, but her gaze never left them. With her free hand, she adjusted the heavy curtains, releasing an army of motes to dance in a golden strip of sunlight. The blond cop sitting on the couch sneezed. Junie pointed the Glock at them and took a short-barrel 12-gauge shotgun from behind an armchair. It trembled slightly and Emmet’s mind clicked into nursing mode. He’d never seen the woman before today, but her movements were on the sluggish side and he was willing to bet that she was either in pain or doped up. Maybe both. He shifted on the sofa and her glance flew to him. Her chocolate brown eyes were clouded. Pain, Emmet thought. A migraine.
She raised an eyebrow. In spite of her slow movements, her voice was clear. “I hadn’t counted on tying up my loose ends so easily. This will be downright fun.”
“Who are you?” Emmet asked. This was the first time he’d had an opportunity to speak since the cop tiptoed into the living room, right into Junie’s grasp.
She smiled, but stayed silent.
“What’s going on?” the cop asked. As Junie had herded Emmet and Joseph into this dusty little room, they’d heard the grumble of an engine and tires sliding across gravel. Continuing to hold the gun on them, Junie deftly parted the curtains and released a groan. She’d put a finger to her lips and waited patiently as the officer snuck inside after pounding on the front door. A muted chime sounded from a small box on the mantle as he opened the kitchen door. They’d listened as he worked his way through the house, eventually easing the living room door open and stepping over the threshold, leading with his gun. It took Junie only a moment to disarm him and steer him to the same couch where Emmet and Joseph sat. Now he was perched on its edge, hands clasped between his knees. He was badly sunburned, even the scalp peeking between his thinning crew cut was glowing a furious red. Still, he sat quietly, green eyes darting between Junie and the two men, his expression alternating between confusion and anger. The black name tag pinned to his shirt read ‘Petchard’. “Junie, what did they do to you?”
“What did they do to me?” Her lips curved in a small smile. “That’s sweet, lover. What are you doing here?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I, um, went by The Golden Gate and Sally said you didn’t feel well. I wanted to check on you.”
She studied his uniform. “Are you still on the clock?”
“Technically, yes.”
“Who knows you’re here?”
“Nobody.”
“Are you sure, lover?”
He nodded.
“And how do you know where I live? I’m sure I’ve never mentioned my address.”
“I followed you home once.” Her face darkened and he hurried on. “You were so secretive about where you lived, Junie. I just wanted to know in case you ever needed anything. So I could get here in a hurry.”
“You’re sneakier than I thought,” Junie said. “I wish I’d known. You could’ve been much more useful.”
Petchard licked his lips. “Junie, what are they doing here?” He glanced at the guns in her hands. “If they’ve hurt you in some way, I’ll arre
st them and that’ll be that.”
“That’s sweet, Hugo, but I don’t think they’ll cause trouble for anyone after today.” Her attention shifted back to Emmet and Joseph. “We’ll wrap our business up very quickly, in fact.”
In spite of the air conditioner chugging in the window, a bead of sweat ran down Emmet’s cheek. He fought the urge to swipe at it. “Who are you working with, Junie, and where is he?”
She pouted. “So, I’m unimportant?”
“As long as you have that shotgun pointed in my direction, you’re very important.”
“Wise. Who do you think I’m working with?”
“Calvin Whitman’s son.”
Junie looked at Joseph, a respectful smile on her face. “You weren’t kidding this morning when you said you were getting close, Moses, were you?”
He stayed silent.
“Where is he?” Emmet asked.
“Not as far away as you might think.”
“And what relation are you? Cousin?”
Junie changed then. It was nothing more than a relaxing of facial muscles, a drop of the shoulders, and the release of her diaphragm. “This is the one useful thing I learned from that deviant, Boyd Dudley,” she answered in a huskier voice. “How to become someone else.”
From the corner of his eye, Emmet caught the startled expression on Officer Petchard’s face. Joseph gasped. In spite of the make-up, Junie’s face had clearly become that of a man.
“You make a pretty good looking chick, Calvin. Can I call you Calvin, or do you prefer Junie?” Emmet asked.
She shifted again, her features becoming more feminine, her voice softer. “Let’s go with Junie, since she’s been so helpful here in Arcadia. When we’re done, maybe I’ll make it a permanent change.”
Recognition dawned in Emmet’s eyes. “That was you in the police car in Tennessee, wasn’t it?”
She smiled and winced slightly.
“How did you trace us back to Arcadia?” And then he nodded. “If you’re one of the state cops, you would’ve had access to all sorts of records.”
Avengers of Blood Page 44