Avengers of Blood (Cass Elliot Crime Series - Book 2)

by Woods, Gae-Lynn

  Kado walked across the room and stopped in front of the two women. He blushed. “I’m heading out, but wanted to say good night.”

  Maxine poked Cass with an elbow. “Introduce me?”

  Cass cut a warning glance at Maxine and cleared her throat. “Kado, I’d like for you to meet a very good friend. This is Maxine Leverman. Maxine, meet Tom Kado, our forensics examiner.”

  Maxine held out her hand, palm down. “Aren’t you a gorgeous creature? Charmed, I’m sure.”

  Kado took her hand, gray eyes wide. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Don’t worry sweetie, I don’t bite. Well, I don’t bite Cass’s boyfriends. Usually.”

  Cass grimaced. “It’s a genetic thing, Kado. She sees a handsome man and can’t help herself. Have a good night.”

  “Handsome, huh?” he said, grinning as he turned and walked away.

  Maxine giggled. “He is a hot little number. You’d better not keep the boy dangling, some other girl might come along and snatch him right out from under you. So to speak.”

  “Dear God, Maxine,” Cass said. “I work with the man.”

  “And a detective outranks a forensic examiner, right? So you really are on top.”

  Cass chuckled as a thought occurred to her. “Have you had sex since the rape?”

  “Well, of course. Why?”

  “What do you tell them about the scar?”

  “If they ask, I tell them it’s body art.”

  “What?”

  “Like a tattoo. Only it’s a scar.”

  “Something you did willingly? On purpose?”

  Maxine nodded.

  “And they believe you?”

  “You are such an innocent, Cass. A horny man will believe anything a naked woman tells him. He’s putty in her hands.” She sighed and leaned into the wall, snagging a bite of ham. “Stop changing the subject. Will you help me?”

  Cass’s phone buzzed and she pulled it from her pocket. Petchard’s name flashed at her. She pushed the button to silence the call. “What if I don’t?”

  “I’ll get a private investigator’s license and a gun and kill him myself. Then I’ll hide the body out in the woods for the hogs to eat. Nobody’ll be the wiser.”

  Cass chuckled. Maxine would do it, no doubt. Her mind worked furiously. Four murders and a missing, injured man targeted by the same killer. Whispers of corruption about the man whose family they were mourning, and about the missing man. Cass’s professional life was full to overflowing, and until they caught this shooter and whoever had burned Calvin Whitehead to death, her time to work surreptitiously on Maxine’s behalf –– and her own, if she was truthful – was limited. But the investigative wheels were already in motion, in her mind at least. And the thought of Maxine with a PI’s license and gun permit was too much to contemplate. “Fine. I’ll do what I can. But,” she cautioned in the face of Maxine’s restrained dance of triumph, “you’ll have to be patient. Things are crazy right now, and this stuff takes time.”

  Cass’s phone rang again. “What do you want, Petchard?”

  Her expression turned hard as granite. After a very short conversation, Cass shut the phone and snapped it open again.

  “I’m sorry, Max. I have to go,” she said, taking a step toward the front door. “I’ll call you later.”

  “What happened?” Maxine asked, reaching for her friend.

  Cass’s violet eyes flashed. “Daddy.”

  CHAPTER 94

  CASS ARRIVED AT SHADY Grove Cemetery as Bruce and Harry were sliding a prone Abe Elliot onto the back seat of Bruce’s pickup. Little Phoebe peered over the front seat, mouth a perfect ‘o’. A few rubberneckers had slowed to watch and Cass flashed her headlights to move them on. Bruce wore filthy coveralls and his dark hair was speckled with dust. Harry was still dressed for the office in a starched white shirt with the sleeves rolled back, khaki slacks, and a walnut colored tie that brought out the golden brown of his eyes. Petchard perched on the short rock wall that enclosed the cemetery, watching.

  “Drunk?” she asked her brothers.

  “As a skunk,” Harry confirmed, wrapping a seat belt around his daughter and closing the truck’s door.

  “An Elliot never does anything half-assed.” Bruce wiped his forehead. “He’s practically catatonic.”

  “What kicked him off?”

  Harry and Bruce exchanged a look. “It’s May,” Harry said.

  “Of course it is,” she breathed.

  “I haven’t been watching him,” said Bruce.

  “Me either,” Harry added. “We’ll get him home and start rinsing him out.”

  “You’re not going to let him sleep?” Cass asked.

  “Nope,” Bruce answered. “We’ll make him wish he’d made it one more day.” He opened the toolbox in his pickup’s bed and tore a trash bag off a nearly empty roll. “Clean up the grave, would you?”

  Cass watched them leave and wondered if she could stay somewhere else tonight. Nobody would get much sleep. She acknowledged Petchard with a lift of her chin and her feet followed the path to her mother’s grave of their own accord. Crushed beer cans and two empty bottles of her father’s favorite poison of late, tequila, marked the spot where his wife was buried. What a shame to ruin such a beautiful place with rubbish like this.

  Shady Grove Cemetery was one of the oldest in Forney County. The massive oak and pine trees blocked the last of the twilight, creating cavities of shadow where mismatched headstones jutted like a fairy tale giant’s jagged teeth. Despite its painful associations for her family and the eeriness that evening brought, Cass had always found Shady Grove a restful place. She started picking the trash up, turning at the sound of footsteps.

  Petchard leaned against a tall headstone carved in the form of a fierce angel. “I could’ve arrested him for public intoxication.”

  “Thanks for calling me instead.”

  “And for assaulting an officer. He took a swing at me.”

  “You’re lucky. His aim is usually pretty good.” She hesitated. “How did you find him?”

  “This is on my way home. He was staggering around the headstones when I drove past, but was already back to your mom’s grave by the time I got out of the car. He collapsed after he swung at me.” Petchard moved from the shadows and stood with her, facing the gravestone. “Why’d he do it? Your mother didn’t die today.”

  Cass read the simple inscription.

  Nell Elliot

  Beloved wife, mother, and daughter

  June 7, 1953 – May 21, 1990

  “May is always a problem.” She faced Petchard. “This is the month, twenty-two years ago, when Hoffner stormed into our house and arrested Jack for rape and murder. My mom died a year later.”

  Petchard’s eyebrows shot up. “I heard about your brother not long after I joined the force, but I didn’t know Hoffner arrested him.”

  “He did.”

  “And he hired you anyway?”

  “I didn’t rape or murder anybody.” She looked again at the headstone. “I’m not sure Jack did, either.”

  Petchard drew a sharp breath. “You think Hoffner arrested the wrong man?”

  “I know that Jack’s arrest made his career.” She shrugged. “But every family probably thinks their loved one didn’t do the crime. And we’ll never know. The case file is gone. The old forensics guy, Hank Comfry, lost it somewhere along the way.” She bent to gather more cans. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

  “We went to the viewing in separate cars. She had stuff to do tonight.”

  “Well, thanks for calling me instead of a squad car.”

  “No problem. Just remember, you owe me.” He smirked as he pivoted to strut away. “And I’ll collect, Elliot. I’ll definitely collect.”

  CHAPTER 95

  JOSEPH FRANKLIN STEPPED FROM his brother’s car and took in the parking lot. Emmet Hedder had picked a seedy motel near downtown Arcadia where rooms were available by the hour. When Joseph had challenged his reasoning for
sticking himself right in the middle of things, Emmet said that the shooter would expect him to run farther away, not closer. He chose to hide in plain sight.

  Satisfied that he was alone, Joseph took the bags from the trunk and trotted around the pink motel. Emmet’s instructions had been explicit: park at the southern end of the building with the car facing the road. He was adamant, but refused to explain.

  Light trickled around the threadbare curtains as Joseph tapped on the door. He heard a bolt slide back and slipped inside when the door opened. Emmet closed it behind them, throwing the bolt and sliding a chain into place.

  “Kind of wimpy, isn’t it?” Joseph asked, nodding at the slim protective measures.

  “Wait until you see the window latches,” Emmet said. He motioned for the medical kit and pulled his t-shirt off.

  Joseph helped Emmet place a new pad of gauze over the injury. The skin was cool to the touch and its color normal. “I did a pretty good job with those stitches, if I do say so myself.”

  Emmet chuckled. “Thank you, Dr. Frankenstein. But at least it’s healing.”

  Joseph dug through the sacks he’d left on the table near the door. “I have a ton of food from the visitation.”

  Emmet took a sandwich and ate a huge bite. “Thanks.”

  Joseph pulled a beer from another bag and waggled it at Emmet.

  “No thanks,” he said. “You shouldn’t either. Got a soda?”

  “Yeah. Dr. Pepper?”

  Emmet nodded.

  “Why no beer?” Joseph asked.

  “You’ve got a freak hunting you, man. A dude who wants you so dead he’s willing to shoot people before making sure they’re his target. You need your wits about you. Every one of them.”

  “Good point.”

  Emmet ate another bite of sandwich and chased it with the Dr. Pepper. “How did the viewing go?”

  Joseph sat on a straight-backed chair and leaned against the wall. “’Bout like viewings always go. Too many tears, too much food.” He popped the top on a soda.

  “Funeral is tomorrow morning?”

  “At ten.”

  “Wish I could be there. Did anybody come in from Alabama?”

  “A bunch of people I don’t really know.”

  “Who called them?”

  “Momma’s preacher, I think.” Joseph chugged his Dr. Pepper and burped. “Tell me who this guy is and why he’s trying to kill you.”

  Emmet scooted up on the bed, propping himself on two wafer-thin pillows. “There’s a chance, maybe one percent, that these shootings aren’t related to what I’m going tell you. But I can’t think of any other reason why someone would come gunning for the three of us.” He tilted his head against the headboard. “All I can figure is that we got caught.”

  “Caught doing what?”

  Emmet closed his eyes. “Seeking vengeance, man.”

  “Vengeance for what? From who?”

  “From the men who murdered our fathers, Joseph. That’s who.”

  CHAPTER 96

  CASS STEPPED INSIDE AND prepared for battle with her father, then stopped short. The kitchen was quiet and nearly devoid of motion. All the cabinets were gone and only jagged bits of sheetrock clung to the wall’s ribcage of studs. To her amazement, Abe Elliot sat perfectly still at the scuffed table, a look of repentance on his face. His white hair was dripping and he wore only a t-shirt and a pair of worn cut-offs. A tattered slipper graced one foot. Goober sat next to him, spooning something into Abe’s mouth. Harry and Bruce stood uneasily in one corner of the demolished kitchen, their clothes damp. Cass read from their body language and the strawberry blossoming on Bruce’s cheek that their father had woken from his stupor in a violent state of mind.

  She sidled across the linoleum floor, grateful to see that today’s construction mess was gone. Harry turned to face her, shifting a bag of frozen corn against the back of his head. “Oh no,” she whispered.

  “It’s fine. He swung, I slipped and hit my head on refrigerator.” Harry scowled at the offending appliance where it sat hiccupping near the middle of the room. A dark smear marred its avocado surface. “It’s usually up against a wall.”

  Re-enacting a scene played too often during their childhood, she motioned to Harry to lower his head from its six feet three inches height so she could examine the split in his scalp, then turned Bruce’s face to the light to see his bruise more clearly. “Harry, that cut might need stitches. Do you want to go to the emergency room?”

  He touched the back of his head and examined his bloody fingers. “Bleeding’s slowing down. You can put butterfly bandages on it tonight. I’ll go see Dr. Rambo tomorrow if it still looks bad.” He leaned into the wall. “It was good of that guy to call you. He’s an officer, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah, Hugo Petchard. And that call wasn’t a freebie. He wants something in return.”

  Bruce frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “For most officers, something like that would be a courtesy. But Petchard thinks he kept Daddy out of trouble.” At Harry’s sidelong glance, she said, “And I guess he did. But he thinks he’s going to use the fact that he didn’t arrest Daddy to get something from me.”

  “What does he want?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Cass answered. “If I get to Sheriff Hoffner before he does, I’ll shut him down.” She leaned forward to listen to Goober’s soft words, then pulled back. “Where did he come from?”

  “Goober was mucking out the kitchen when we got home,” Bruce said, stretching his jaw. “We tore out of here so fast after we got your call, we must’ve left the house unlocked. Harry put Phoebe to bed and then helped me get Daddy into the shower and cleaned up. We brought him down to start forcing water and coffee into him, and Goober was cooking. I think there must be some Elliot in his family tree.”

  “Why?”

  “We eat when times are bad, so we must think that food helps. Goober seems to have the same attitude. Those are scrambled eggs.”

  “Really?” Cass asked. “Daddy hates eggs.”

  “Goober said it’s something he learned from the old lady who adopted him. Apparently she liked a little tipple now and then, and he used eggs, toast, and Sprite to settle her stomach and sober her up.”

  Cass watched them, her heart breaking a little more for the life Goober had led. “Why is Daddy so still?”

  Harry shrugged. “He’s never hit you before, and apparently he doesn’t hit non-family members.”

  She leaned forward again to listen to Goober. His voice was still soft, but the words he spoke were brutal. “Goober is… well, he’s fussing at Daddy for getting drunk. He wouldn’t stand for that from one of us.”

  “It’s either because this is the first time he’s been drunk in front of Goober,” Harry said, lowering his voice to a whisper, “or because he knows Goober’s retarded. It’s got to be embarrassing to be scolded by somebody with Goober’s IQ.”

  The squeal of tires broke the quiet and Harry grimaced. A car door slammed and a pale flash streaked past the kitchen window. The door opened with a bang and Hurricane Carly blew in, her eyes wild and her bleached hair disheveled. At the sight of Abe and Goober, a snarl escaped her and Bruce stepped aside as she stalked toward Harry. “Where is she?” she growled. “Where is my baby?”

  “Phoebe’s upstairs asleep, Carly. Leave her be.” Harry moved the frozen corn from the back of his head and her jaw dropped at the sight of blood.

  “I can’t believe you’d want our child exposed to this –,” she glanced around the bare kitchen and when her gaze landed on Goober and Abe, she sneered, “– this filth.”

  Harry rocked as if punched and Cass stepped between them, facing Carly. “Get out,” she ordered in a low voice. “Phoebe is sound asleep. She’s in no danger here. Harry will take her to school in the morning and the two of you can negotiate who will pick her up. You’re not waking that child to prove a point.”

  Carly’s chin flew up and she jabbed a finger at Harry. “Mother told me
you Elliots were white trash. I was too stupid to see it. But mark my words, Harry, no judge will give you even partial custody while you’re living with a drunk, a retard, a woman who shoots her fellow officers, and,” she looked Bruce up and down, “the county queer. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Tears sprang to Bruce’s eyes and he covered his mouth with his fist, smothering a laugh.

  She spun and stormed across the kitchen, slamming the door so hard it shook in its frame. Cass eyed Harry. “I hope the crown was worth it.”

  “Except for my daughters, I’m not sure it was. Guess I’d better get serious about divorce proceedings. I’m sorry about that.”

  Bruce held up his mobile phone. “Carly’s always been a drama queen. And now we’ve got it on video.”

  Goober had turned when Carly entered the kitchen and watched with fascination as the quiet scene unfolded. Now, he scraped the last of the eggs from the plate and told Abe to open up. He did. Goober slid the food into his mouth and waited until Abe’s lips closed, then pulled the spoon out. Abe chewed and swallowed, and Goober held up a pink sippy cup shaped like a ballerina and tapped Abe’s lips with the straw. Her father sipped and swallowed. Next, Goober slathered butter on a piece of toast, cut it into small bites, and fed them to Abe. When all the food was gone, Goober patted Abe’s arm and turned to the entranced group.

  “He can go to bed now,” Goober said.

  “Thanks, Goob,” Bruce said, approaching Abe with a degree of caution.

  “It’s okay,” Goober said. “He won’t hit you.”

  “You sure?” Harry asked.

  “Yes. Leave a bottle of water next to the bed.”

  He picked up the dishes after Harry and Bruce had maneuvered Abe through the kitchen door. Cass intercepted him on his way to the make-shift sink. “How did you do that, Goober?”

  He shrugged and rubbed his hands on his overalls. “I told him how mean it was to put his kids through something like this. That he ought to be more respectful to y’all.”