by Mary Ellis
Beth shook her head. “Why don’t you study them first, Mike? I need a few moments alone.” She staggered to her cubicle.
Michael took the reports from Maxine. He longed to follow her down the hall but had to respect her wishes. Once again, he’d forgotten that his partner and the reverend had been close. It was bad enough to think someone you respected took their own life, but it was even worse to think your friend had been murdered in cold blood.
FORTY
Beth closed the flimsy partition separating the back cubicles and laid her head down on her desk. For several minutes she let every memory of Paul and Alice Dean, along with their daughter, run through her mind like an old home movie. She’d never seen the pastor in anything but a good mood. How often he stayed after services to chat with old ladies, rebellious teenagers, or postpartum new mothers. Patient, thoughtful, kind—that was Reverend Dean. Yet somebody strung him up in a cobwebby shed with no more compassion than they would have for a side of beef. Beth let her tears fall until they pooled on the metal desktop. Then she slipped down the hallway and out the back door before Michael or Maxine could ask another question.
How could this case get so messed up?
Despite the fact that she wore slacks and loafers, Beth broke into a run. She didn’t stop until she doubled over with a side stitch and her feet hurt. Then she turned around and walked slowly back, inhaling deep, yoga-style breaths with every step. Unlocking the alley door with her key, Beth returned to her cubicle far more centered than when she left. She knew what she had to do. Nate needed to be updated on the case. He was the one paying their salaries and expected to be kept in the loop. On her desk lay a copy of Paul’s second autopsy. Helpless to stop herself, Beth picked it up and began to read. For fifteen minutes she was oblivious to ringing phones, traffic noise on the street, and the emptiness in her gut. She soaked up the terminology with morbid fascination, silently pronouncing medical terms as though she’d be quizzed tomorrow.
“Beth!” Maxine’s voice finally pierced her shell.
“Yes?” She dropped the final sheet atop the others.
“Didn’t you hear me yelling? Nate has been trying to reach you. He said your phone goes straight to voice mail. You’d better call him back right now. He didn’t sound happy.”
Michael squeezed next to Maxine in the doorway. “Want me to talk to him first? If Nate’s mad, it’s because of what I did.”
Beth tapped the ME’s reports into a neat pile. “No, just sit there while I call.” She pointed at a box of old files that needed to be stored. “Thanks, Maxine.”
When the assistant had ambled back to her desk, Beth punched Nate’s number into her phone. He answered on the first ring—a bad sign if there ever was one. “Hi, Nate. How’s life on the Gulf of Mexico?”
“Peachy. How are things going upstate?” The tone of Nate’s voice confirmed Maxine’s assessment of his mood.
“I take it you heard from Jack?”
“Oh, no. It’s much worse than that. I heard from Chris McNeil. The chief took time from his busy day to call because the people I left in charge don’t seem to understand chain of command.”
Beth contemplated putting the conversation on speaker, but inside the tiny cubicle there was no need. Michael could hear every word. “I can explain everything. I think Chris overreacted because Jack got him fired up—”
“McNeil didn’t overreact, Beth. He was calm, cool, and confused as to what went wrong. He said you told him about the trip to Denver when you came to his office and that he made it clear you were only to gather facts, evidence which could be presented to the DA if there are criminal charges down the road. You indicated you understood the limitations of a private investigator in a potential police matter.” Nate spoke slowly without raising his voice, yet the tension between them spanned hundreds of miles.
Michael leaped to his feet and tried to wrestle the phone from her hand. “Could you hold on one moment?” Beth elbowed her partner in the ribs with little reaction.
“No, actually I can’t. Isabelle and I are in the middle of something right now. I trust you’ll talk to Chief McNeil and Detective Lejeune and get this straightened out.”
“Since it’s getting late, I’ll call them first thing Monday morning. Tell Isabelle I said—”
“No, Beth. You and Mike will go to the Natchez PD right now. I don’t care if you sit there all night, but you’ll face the music in person. I’ll be back in touch soon.” Nate hung up without mentioning the weather or asking for an update on the case.
Beth locked eyes with her partner. “He hung up before I could tell him about the autopsy results.”
Michael stuck his hands in his pockets. “Sounds like he and his wife are busy. Why don’t we wait a few hours and then send him a text? I can scan the new report and send it as an attachment.”
“Good idea about sending a text, but we’ll hold off on the report unless Nate asks for it. He might not want it floating through the ethers.”
“So you and I are off to see the Wizard?” Michael backed out of her cramped cubicle. “Too bad you’re not wearing ruby slippers.”
Beth managed a weak smile. Facing Chris in front of Michael was worse than flying monkeys clawing her back. She really liked her new partner and would prefer not groveling at the feet of her old boss. “We might as well get this over with. Let’s make extra copies of Reverend Dean’s autopsy just in case.”
At least when they reached the police station, Sergeant Mendez didn’t complain about them not having an appointment or put them through a preliminary interrogation. “The chief has been expecting you, Miss Kirby. Best not to keep him waiting,” Mendez said with a smug grin.
“Let me do the talking,” Michael whispered in her ear. “I won’t let you take the fall for this.”
“No way. Nate put me in charge of the Dean case, so the responsibility rests squarely with me.”
“I acted without consulting you first. That’s what I need to—”
If the hallway to his office had been longer, they might have been able to finish the argument. But because Natchez had a small police station, and Chief McNeil was standing in his doorway, Michael’s final words hung in the air. “Should I catch up with email while you two decide upon an explanation?” he asked, his gaze drifting over them like a cold breeze.
“No. We’re ready.” Beth walked in as though approaching the gallows. “Chris, I would like to apologize on behalf of Price Investigations. It was my job to see that our new agent understood procedures, and I left too much at his discretion.”
“Miss Kirby had no way of knowing what I had planned. I take full responsibility.” Michael gripped the back of a leather chair.
“Stop and sit down, both of you.” Chris pointed at two chairs. “I understand it was a lack of communication without intention to interfere with a police investigation and that it won’t happen again. However, rest assured that if it does happen again, Detective Lejeune will bring charges against one or both of you. Charges that I will be unable and unwilling to circumvent.”
They both nodded agreement.
“Make sure Detective Lejeune has everything you collected on this scam charity, even if you’re unsure of its importance. It will be the FBI’s call whether evidence is pertinent or not.”
“I understand, sir,” said Michael.
“And, Beth, I strongly suggest you stay out of Jack’s way. Do the job Alice is paying for in regards to clearing her husband’s name of financial misfeasance. If the building fund of Calvary Baptist has been absconded by a fake charity, the Financial Crimes Division will do everything in their power to recover the money.”
Beth and Michael exchanged a glance. “I’m afraid we have bigger problems than just missing money. An hour ago I received word from the Mississippi medical examiner. Dr. Diab finished the second autopsy along with a full tox screen. Paul’s official cause of death has been changed to homicide. I thought you would have heard by now.” Beth’s clothes suddenly fel
t one size too small.
Chris’s face registered a flicker of displeasure. “That report would have gone straight to Detective Lejeune, despite the fact a private party requested the second autopsy. I trust you indicated that he was the lead investigator on the criminal case on all paperwork you submitted to Jackson?” His focus landed right between Beth’s eyebrows.
“Of course I did. Besides, the ME’s office knows who works in Homicide in Adams County.”
“Then I’m sure Jack has already received the report. I’ll take a look at it when he comes back to the office.”
“In that case, we shouldn’t take up more of your time.” Beth stood, eager to be away from the man she’d wanted to spend her life with. “Rest assured we won’t step over the line in the Dean case again.”
“There’s one more thing, Beth…and you may not want Mr. Preston to hear it.” Chris bobbed his head at Michael.
“I can’t keep secrets from my partner, not if I want him to learn the good, the bad, and the ugly of PI work.”
“Suit yourself. Just make sure you dot every i with my new head of Homicide. Jack doesn’t like you, Beth. That’s obvious. You probably think it’s because you were promoted first.” Chris shifted his weight in the chair as though uncomfortable. “But the truth is that Jack had a crush on you a long time ago. Everyone knew it but you. When you focused your attention…elsewhere, he took it personally. I can only offer some friendly advice—stay out of his way.”
“Thanks. That’s what I intend to do.” Expecting the riot act, part two, Beth felt blindsided by Chris’s warning. She hurried out of his office as though someone pulled the fire alarm at Morgantown Elementary. “Sorry. I guess you didn’t need to hear that,” she said to Michael once they were outside the municipal building.
He had wasted no time with polite fare-thee-well’s either. “Any clue how many times you apologized today?”
“I don’t know…nine or ten?”
“I believe forty-two, more than the sum total of your adult life.”
Beth burst out laughing. “For a second there I thought you had actually counted. Oh, man, take me away from this town—someplace warm, maybe on the water. Definitely where I haven’t made a fool of myself yet.”
“How about the DQ south of town? They have great chili dogs and a partial view of a retention pond.”
“Perfect. Nobody knows me at that one. Full speed ahead, Scotty.”
As soon as they buckled up, Michael peeled out of the parking lot. “I doubt they can catch us in this car. Watch how much better you’ll feel after chili dogs with a soft-serve chaser.”
“I feel better already.” Beth leaned back and closed her eyes, marveling at how the world improved with each passing mile.
FORTY-ONE
That evening, Beth entered a kitchen smelling like chicory coffee and fresh-baked dessert. It was a welcome change from the usual odor of fried catfish or boiled cabbage and onions. “Is that apple pie I smell?” she asked, letting the screen door slam behind her.
Her mother turned from a sink full of soapy dishes with a cheery smile. “Yep. I baked three this afternoon. How ’bout I cut you a slice?”
“We have French vanilla ice cream too,” added Pops, his callused fingers wrapped around a coffee mug. With his bib overalls and plaid shirt, her father brought to mind the famous American Gothic painting, minus the pitchfork.
“I’ll wait and have my pie for breakfast.” Beth slipped into the chair next to her dad. “I just devoured two chili dogs along with a strawberry milkshake.”
“Should I get you the Mylanta or a stomach pump?” asked her mother.
“Neither, actually. I feel fine. When Michael falls off the health food wagon, he doesn’t mess around. He opted for a three-pack of chili and onion dogs.”
Rita carried two mugs to the table. “Your new partner seems to be working out.”
“He still has more to learn, but we’re getting along.” Beth reached for the coffee. “I’m not sure where I’ll put this, but it smells wonderful.”
“You think Nate might keep you in Natchez once this case is finished?” Rita studied her daughter over her mug.
The case. For a brief moment, Beth thought about confiding in her parents that Alice had been right, but she came to her senses. Her mother would have that tidbit spread across the county by tomorrow, which would hardly be professional discretion. Besides, she had fixated on the case enough for one day. She longed for mindless chatter followed by an hour of television reruns and then dreamless sleep.
When Beth glanced up, her parents were still waiting for an answer. “He might. It all depends on who hires our agency next. Lately, Natchez hasn’t been a hotbed of wayward spouses, runaway teenagers, or shady business dealings.”
“Thank goodness.” Rita popped Stan’s neglected crust into her mouth.
“That’s good for our Christian souls, but bad for the PI business.” Beth eyed the pie. A thin slice seemed to be calling her name. Despite being full, she knew how seldom her mother baked and how spectacular her pies were. Suddenly, the crunch of gravel and a flash of headlights provided timely distraction.
“Who could that be at this hour?” Clucking her tongue with disapproval, Rita directed the question at no one in particular.
“I’ll go see. The longer I smell that pie, the tighter my waistband gets.” Beth scrambled to her feet. The visitor was probably Michael making sure things were copacetic. His mistake with Buckley was her fault. She should have told him about her conversation with the chief and spelled out PI limitations.
Unfortunately, the car that stopped inches from her mother’s prized rosebushes wasn’t a shiny new Charger. Jack climbed from his county-issued sedan with the friendliness of a bear awoken midway through winter hibernation.
“You’re really a piece of work, Kirby!” he snarled as she stepped onto the porch. He shrugged into his sport coat to cover his shoulder holster.
“Good evening, Jack. Did you hear through the grapevine that my mother baked her famous Dutch apple pies? I believe there’s a piece inside with your name on it.” Beth closed the distance so their conversation wouldn’t be under the kitchen window. There was a time when she’d thought him nice looking, although his attitude was never her style. Tonight he looked like a lion bearing down on an antelope.
Lejeune slicked a hand through his hair, the whites of his eyes sharp against his suntan. “Have a slice of pie?” He mimicked her inflection. “You can’t possibly be this stupid.”
Beth refused to let him rile her. “To either confirm or deny, I need to know what you’re talking about.”
“Can you explain why I had to hear from a Vicksburg detective that Reverend Dean’s death was ruled a homicide?”
Beth stared at him without blinking. “Someone from Vicksburg called you with the ME’s decision?”
“No, Kirby. Detective Russell asked why she was sent the new autopsy and the request for physical evidence instead of me. Paul Dean died in Adams County, not in Warren. I looked like a fool. When I called my chief, he said he’d been hand-delivered a copy. Of course, you would use any reason to visit your boyfriend.” His face was contorted with rage.
Beth ignored his juvenile terminology and concentrated on something more important. “You didn’t get an email from the ME, along with a faxed copy of her report?”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Don’t play games with me, Kirby. Nobody sent the report because you failed to list me as the lead detective on the case. You are so—”
“No!” Beth interrupted, her voice rising. “I put down your name and the fax number for the Natchez PD. It should have been sent to your attention. I have no idea why it went to Detective Russell in Vicksburg!”
“I’ll tell you what happened.” Jack jabbed his index finger precariously close to her chest. “You…are…incompetent. Always have been, always will be.”
Rankled by his unfair description, she slapped away his finger. “I’m telling you it was som
e kind of snafu at the ME’s office. Your name was listed along with mine on Alice’s request for a second autopsy. Chris only received a copy because Nate ordered Michael and me to apologize for our misstep.” She refused to let Michael take the blame just to mitigate the present situation.
“Sounds like your new boss isn’t any more thrilled with your performance than your old boss.” His grin contained more malevolence than humor. “Know something, Kirby? I don’t believe a word you say. I’m giving you one last warning to stay away from my case.”
“I have a right to do the job I’m being paid for,” she snapped, losing patience.
“Sure,” he drawled, “just so you remember you’re no longer a detective. You’re not even on the force. And if I find proof that this was no clerical error at the ME’s office, I’ll have you arrested for interfering with a police investigation. We’ll see how a Class B misdemeanor looks on your résumé when Price fires you.” He stomped back to his car and peeled down the driveway, sending gravel in all directions.
Beth walked back through the kitchen door feeling as though she’d been kicked in the gut. One look at her parents told her they had heard every word of the conversation.
“Your piece of pie is in the blue Tupperware, ready to heat for your breakfast.” Her mother wrung her hands, while her dad squeezed her elbow as she walked past.
“Get some sleep, daughter,” he said. “The world will look a little rosier tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry about me. That was just Jack overreacting, same as usual. Good night.”
Seeing the pain on their faces hurt worse than Lejeune’s unfair conclusion. Just once before she died, Beth wanted to make her parents proud. Inside her bedroom, the last thing on her mind was sleep. Beth had never seen Jack so angry. If she’d been a man, she would probably be nursing a bloody nose or picking herself up from the sidewalk. She considered calling Chris or Nate, but she dismissed the notion. The truth about the mix-up at the ME’s office would eventually come out. Until it did, any action on her part would seem like rationalizing or groveling or asking someone else to fight her battles. Not one of which would help her career.