He wanted to remind them that the body they poked and prodded was a person—a real person, his friend and mentor, not just the victim. But he knew it wouldn’t do any good. So he bit his tongue, rare for Merrill, and ignored them.
He peered through the open driver’s door and into the front seat. Aaron’s body was still where they had found it. In life, Aaron had been a big man, even at seventy. Not quite as muscled-up as in his prime, but still a rugged woodsman. He lay right side down on the front seat, rump still behind the wheel, head on the passenger seat. His silver hair looped onto the collar of the dark green chamois shirt Kent had given him last Christmas. He was wearing his hunting boots. His once blue eyes, now chalky, stared blankly at the dashboard. A massive rent in Aaron’s throat loomed at Merrill like swollen lips around a slobbering mouth. A pool of blood half as big as Cuyler Lake had congealed on the floor. The .38 hung from his right hand.
A half cough rolled up the back of Merrill’s throat.
“They’re never pretty, but it’s worse when you know them,” Mike said from behind him.
Merrill kept his eyes on the carnage. “I’d like a copy of the complete report when you’ve got it.”
“I’ll make sure.”
“No witnesses. Right?”
“Nope. Only ones we have to question so far are the old man and boy who found him this morning. I saw you talking to them.”
“Yeah.” Merrill stood straight, thumbs in his thick uniform belt. He shifted his eyes to the two fishermen, still waiting to be interviewed. “You think they did it?”
Lalomia’s lips pulled into a thin smile. He blew a quick laugh through his nose. “Yeah. They look the type.” He let the humor dissipate. “You don’t think it’s a suicide?”
Merrill shrugged. “Just keep an open mind. I know you will without me telling you to. Aaron was a real good friend.”
“Didn’t he write for the Dispatch?”
“Yeah. He’s been their outdoors writer for six or eight years.”
“Hunting and fishing articles mostly, as I remember.”
“Uh-huh. Pretty low-key stuff. It was something to occupy his time.”
“Nothing controversial. Right?”
Merrill let his eyes drift out onto Cuyler Lake, its surface choppy from the wind. “Nothing that would make someone want to kill him, if that’s what you mean. As far as I know, he didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
“Brings us back to suicide.”
Merrill stared at the churning water. There’d be a few more nice days, but before long, arctic air tumbling down from Canada would turn the green, undulating surface into rock-rigid, white desolation. He looked forward to winter. Cold, clear days. Frigid, hushed nights. Deer season. Wood smoke. The holidays. Winter brought out the warmth in Jefferson.
“They tell me his place is around on the other side of the lake.”
Merrill pointed north. “It’s a little log cabin he and his wife built.”
“She’s dead. Isn’t she?”
“She died in seventy-seven.”
Lalomia spoke thoughtfully. Not pushy. “So. He was old. His wife’s been gone what, five years? Maybe he just got tired of the hassle.”
“He had a ton of friends.”
“Maybe he was sick—you know, cancer or something.”
“I’d have heard if he was. Aaron visited my mother at the nursing home at least once a week. He couldn’t keep a secret from her, and she wouldn’t have been able to keep it from me or my brother.”
Mike nodded. “Okay. We’ll follow up on it. I’ll get you the report.”
“Thanks. Keep in touch.”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
As Merrill climbed back into his black-and-white, he noticed the Pekingese and schnauzer still standing by the telephone-pole rail where he’d seen them before. They were treading and dipping at the knees to stay warm.
He eased his car down into the lot so that the yellow crime scene tape was within inches of his window.
Lalomia noticed his return and gave him a questioning look.
“Can you have one of your men take care of those two who found the body before they freeze to death?”
Mike glanced at the pair. Signaled back an okay.
Merrill nodded thanks and gunned his cruiser up onto the highway back toward Jefferson. Protesters at Copithorn, Aaron Whitmore dead—all before lunch. Maybe it wasn’t such a boring little burg after all.
Chapter 2
Kent Stephenson’s Ford pickup was as familiar around town as the mail carrier. The veterinarian making his rounds, a comforting fixture of small-town living. He braked it to the end of a line of idling cars. One or two drivers cast him a smile and a wave. He returned their greetings. He was a lifelong resident of Jefferson and the only veterinarian anyone could ever remember in the tiny village. He knew everything there was to know about the town, its people, and their animals. Right now he knew something was fishy. Jefferson had no rush hour. Traffic backups just never happened.
He reached over and stroked the soft fur of his best friend, Lucinda. The massive redbone coonhound relaxed on the seat next to him.
“Now what?”
He could see other drivers craning their necks for a better view of whatever was causing the delay.
Lucinda wagged her tail and smiled back at her master through keen eyes that reflected endless devotion.
Kent leaned out the window and squinted into the morning sun. Several car lengths ahead, he could make out people milling around like cattle. They brandished placards that were too far away to read. The entrance to Copithorn Research seemed to be their target, but the congestion spilled out into the street and slackened traffic to the pace of an overweight basset hound on a hot summer day.
He pushed a hand through his hair. Must be a strike. A bunch of picketers holding up the show.
Slowly he inched the truck toward the commotion until they were within earshot.
A dark-haired woman in her thirties moved toward them, wielding her placard like a battle-ax.
“Would you burn out your eyes for a rabbit’s vanity? Kill computers, not puppies!”
“What the hell?” Kent said, leaning toward the windshield to read her sign: A RAT IS A PIG, IS A DOG, IS A BOY.
A deep growl rolled up Lucinda’s throat. Kent grabbed a handful of her russet coat. “Take it easy, girl.” Then it hit him. This wasn’t a strike. It was an animal rights protest! He almost laughed.
“Hey, girl. That woman is on your side!”
Lucinda growled again.
Loose curls, so black they diffused the sun’s highlights into a splendor of iridescent blue, fell onto the woman’s shoulders. She wore no makeup and didn’t need it. Her skin was smooth, maybe Native American, Kent thought. Behind her she-wolf glare was a glint of conviction.
“Uh-oh,” slipped from his lips and caused Lucinda to glance his way.
“Mister, let that dog go! It’s not natural for one animal to own another!” the she-wolf shouted.
Kent’s mouth tightened. He hated it when people tried to bully their opinions onto others. Lord knew he faced that enough from his family nowadays. He sure as hell did not need it from these nuts.
“I take that back, Lucinda. They are not looking out for you. Ignore the misguided screw-ups. Hopefully they’ll go away.” But as he said it, an irritating little warning rose out of his subconscious. That’s wishful thinking.
They continued past the melee and traffic speed began to pick up. Kent saw his brother’s police cruiser pull up to the demonstration.
“There we go, Lucinda,” he said. “Merrill’s on the scene. He’ll get things straightened out.”
Kent peered into an incision in the belly wall of a golden retriever and groped with two fingers for her uterus. “Anyway, Sally, you listening?�
� he said loud enough to be sure his voice made it from the surgery room to her office.
“I hear you,” Kent’s one and only receptionist, bookkeeper, surgical assistant, and kennel cleaner answered from her desk around the corner.
Her auburn hair cut short and with freckles across the bridge of her nose, Sally had a round face, round fingertips, and a round rump. She was hefty enough to be a good assistant yet graceful enough to move easily around the tiny hospital. She loved the animals, and they loved her. In contrast to Kent, her mood was always upbeat.
“Getting back to Mrs. Crane. Like I said, they called me from the vet school in Ithaca about her gray cat I referred down to them.”
“Cinder?”
“Right. The oncologist agreed it’s lymphosarcoma. So here’s old Cinder, fourteen years old, he can hardly breathe, he’s got screaming diarrhea, and they recommend that she get chemo for him. Does that make sense to you?”
“She can afford it.”
“That’s not the point!” Kent’s tone dropped to a mechanical drone. “I need you in here for a second to open a packet of suture material.” Then it heated up again. “The point is we shouldn’t let Cinder suffer. You know? To my mind it’s just not right to keep that cat going for, at tops, six more months if he’s vomiting all the time, his hair is falling out, and he’s generally too miserable to move. Even if the owner can afford it.”
“I know, but maybe she doesn’t want to put him to sleep.”
“Of course not. No owner wants to, but it’s part of being a responsible owner to—”
The phone rang, and Sally grabbed it so fast Kent could tell she was relieved to be spared his opinion.
He heard the initial exchange from Sally’s end and knew it was Merrill.
“Kent, your brother’s on line one,” she said, as if they had a line two.
“Tell him I’m in surgery.”
“I did. He wants you to meet him for lunch.”
Kent released a long breath as he daubed the blood from his surgical field. Was he going to have to put up with another of Merrill’s get-your-life-together lectures? “I’ll call him back in a couple of minutes.”
Sally said something into the phone and then hung up.
Kent turned back to his patient. What did Merrill want now? Irritation transmitted through his hands. He closed the incision, suturing as if he were in a MASH unit. Why was Merrill constantly pushing him to be what he wasn’t anymore? Because he was his brother? Because he was a cop? Kent didn’t care if he didn’t meet Merrill’s expectations. He knew he had done better, but that was when Mary was still around.
Kent snipped the last suture on the retriever’s abdomen and pulled off the drape. He paused at the photo of his ex-wife and their daughter that hung even with his diploma on the surgery room wall, stared at it, then picked a clean gauze from the counter and wiped its glass. It had been taken six years back, when they were a family. Emily was all smiles sitting in a shiny new Radio Flyer wagon, Mary pulling. It was her third birthday. Thinking about Emily made his heart ache. She was growing up so fast, and he wasn’t there to be a part of her life. His constant absence had been too much for Mary.
That damned divorce had nearly killed him. His intestines knotted even now as he recalled Mary’s bitterness. He had conceded everything to her, for Emily’s sake, but she kept sic’ing her lawyers on him. They bled him more and more until all he had left was his clinic. He had sacrificed too much for his profession. He shook off his funk and glanced at his watch.
“Sally, bring out the Dobie pup. Let’s get him done.”
By the time Kent had cleaned the table, Sally was easing into the operating room with a black-and-tan pup nestled in her arms. “Don’t be nervous,” she cooed, as she stroked his back and set him on the table. “A few minutes and it’ll be all over, no more hernia.” She held his ears out playfully. “You look more like an old hound dog than a Doberman pinscher.”
“Don’t insult Lucinda with your hound-dog remarks,” Kent said, gesturing at his dog, who was lying on a rug in the corner. The sleepy-eyed canine raised her head.
Sally gave an apologetic look. “Sorry, Lucy. Nothing personal.”
Lucinda thumped her tail on the linoleum a time or two and then rested her chin back on her forefeet.
A short time later, Sally carried the limp patient back to his cage, complete with a white belly wrap that he’d be able to play up for all kinds of sympathy when he got home.
Kent snapped off his gloves.
He punched the Jefferson police station number into the phone. “Hello, Janet? This is Kent. Is the chief in?”
“No. He had to take off, but hold on one moment.”
He could hear papers shuffling in the background.
“He did leave a note for you. All it says is he’ll meet you for lunch at the diner. Quarter to one.”
Typical, always a big mystery, Kent thought as he replaced the phone. Then he remembered the animal rights protest he and Lucinda had seen earlier. Maybe Merrill wanted to talk about that.
A professional matter? That would be a nice change from the usual commentary on how he was letting life pass him by.
Chapter 3
Kent loved to watch Lucinda sitting up straight in the passenger seat. Riding in the truck was her favorite thing in the world—next to coon hunting. She pushed her nose through a crack in the glass, analyzing long whiffs of the olfactory smorgasbord as it breezed past.
Beyond Lucinda, the village passed—tidy storefronts with quaint names, a tiny college, several pristine churches, a shady green with a statue for the pigeons. Two decades ago, Jefferson’s sylvan seclusion had been discovered by developers struggling to accommodate the swell of urbanites retreating from Syracuse. Land prices were pushed beyond the reach of farmers, inflated by speculators who converted alfalfa meadows into housing tracts. Jefferson’s sower-reaper heritage had begun to fade away like its farm fields until the Chamber of Commerce took Stef Copithorn up on her offer to keep her thriving, triple-A-rated enterprise in the community. Copithorn Research was Jefferson’s savior. It, too, encroached on farmland, but it replaced that land with jobs, not houses.
Kent cruised down Albany Street, found a parking spot no problem, right in front of the Village Diner.
It was a utilitarian restaurant, brightly lit, with curt service. One-page plasticized menus that no one bothered to read. Customers were locals: farmers, merchants, mechanics, and the village cops, of course. More interested in the quantity than the quality of their meal, they ordered the daily special off a blackboard behind the counter.
Kent stepped inside and scanned the lunch crowd. Merrill’s was not among the faces. Figured. He wove his way between tables, exchanging quick greetings with half a dozen diners. Most were former schoolmates. All were his clients. He slid into a booth where he could see the door and waited.
After twenty minutes of drumming his fingers to Dolly Parton and a string of other country chart toppers, Kent saw Merrill crossed in front of the cash register.
He eyed his brother and figured Merrill had been indulging in greasy diner food too often lately. The only physical resemblance they shared was the sharp angle of their jaws, an inherited trait from their mother’s side of the family, and Merrill’s appeared more blurred than ever, hidden by his fleshy jowls. That was where the brotherly similarity ended, unless food might be a common denominator. Neither one of them could boast of healthful eating habits, a fact that had made their mother crazy all their lives. Merrill had always been the short, robust one and Kent the tall, skinny one. Even though they were both in their forties, that had not changed.
Today, Merrill’s face looked too puffy to be blamed on his diet.
“What’s the matter with you?” Kent asked as Merrill slid in across from him.
Merrill stared directly at his brother and then let his eyes s
ettle toward the napkin dispenser. “Aaron Whitmore is dead.”
Kent’s arm was resting on the table. When he jumped, it rattled the ketchup bottle. He stared back at Merrill, searching his face for some sign that this was a black joke. There was none.
“If this is some of your sick humor, it’s not funny,” he said, longing for it to be a joke but having enough experience reading his brother to know it was not.
“Last night. Out at the boat launch on Cuyler Lake. They think he shot himself.”
Kent leaned toward his brother, gripped the table with both hands. “Shot himself? No!”
Merrill shrugged. “Maybe he was lonely, Claire gone and all. No kids.”
“That’s bullshit!”
Kent took a deep breath to continue the volley when a gray-uniformed waitress appeared at his elbow.
Merrill spoke first, without looking at the menu. “Hi, Tammy. I’ll have the special. But don’t give me any coleslaw. Coffee.”
Tammy turned to Kent, gum snapping.
He ordered quickly, anxious to get back to Aaron’s death. “I’ll have a BLT on white, a cup of soup, and iced tea. Then I also want two plain hamburgers to go.”
Merrill looked at Kent quizzically as Tammy headed to the counter.
“Lucinda’s in the truck.”
“Oh, Jesus. You and that dog.”
“No way Aaron committed suicide. He was happy. Busy. Too involved. I ran into him at the nursing home just last week. He stopped in to see Mom.”
“He thought a lot of Mom.”
Kent rocked back, stared at the ceiling. Aaron Whitmore dead. “He was telling me all the things he had going on.” Suddenly Kent felt as though someone had stuffed a dry rag in his throat. “He is—was—real busy with the Scouts. Just like he was when we were young. Remember?”
“Sure I do. If ever there was a guy who should have had kids, it was Aaron.”
Taking On Lucinda Page 2