“I’ve seen Jack down on the old farm quite a bit, and he’s baled hay there fer several years. When I asked him about that, he said he was gettin’ hay rights from the owner. Guess he was! But, I didn’t think much of it since it’s common to sell hay off unused land, and if the man didn’t want to talk about it, well, I won’t talk much about my business to others neither. Finally all the little things got me to thinkin’, though, and I’m not surprised, though I didn’t know enough to make any speech about it.”
“Well, I’m surprised,” Carrie said. “It’s terrible! Why on earth would Mag want to be on our committee? Spy? That’s ridiculous, isn’t it, unless she was afraid we’d spoil the sale, and they’d have to give the money back.”
No one had an answer. Just then a knock at the door told them someone, probably Sergeant Don Taylor, had arrived. Carrie looked at the clock. Her long ordeal had taken only three hours. It wasn’t ten o’clock yet!
Sure enough, the resonant voice at the door belonged to Taylor. She wondered if he’d been spending a quiet evening at home when Henry called. She also wondered how many peaceful evenings Henry spent at home when he was a policeman. She tried to picture Henry sitting in a living room with a shadowy woman named Irena and couldn’t.
Carrie repeated her story to Taylor, explaining in response to his question that her sole reason for going to the farm had been to see if she could find out what good news JoAnne had for them. She told him about the note on the back of the electric bill, which was still in her purse locked inside the station wagon. When he left, he said men were already searching the old farm. Henry went with him to bring Carrie’s purse and station wagon back.
Evidently, quick checking of the wagon had told the detectives the man who tied Carrie left no marks on it. In less than an hour, Henry was back, ready to drive Carrie home. She insisted she could drive herself and, after squeezing her own boots on over Roger’s socks and thanking the Booths with a fervor she certainly felt, she tucked her borrowed robe around her, threw her dirty clothing in the back of her wagon, and headed for home.
Henry followed close behind and got out of his car to walk with her to the door. He came inside without asking and insisted on going through every room to check windows and doors. “I think I should spend the night here,” he said. “I can sleep on the couch.”
“Goodness, no, I’m fine,” she said, hoping she meant it but not really one hundred percent sure.
They sat in the two chairs by the woodstove, and Carrie found his presence quite comforting, even if she was fine.
It was wonderful to feel safe and warm again.
“When does Susan come?” he asked.
“The plane’s supposed to be in at eleven.”
“I think I should go to the airport with you. I can come along and drive your car. You’ve had quite an ordeal, after all.”
Carrie was sure his wish to come with her had to do with more than her ordeal, but she didn’t say so. She’d welcome his company on the hour-long drive to the airport, and the sooner he and Susan met, the better.
She asked if he didn’t agree with her that they should do more looking on the old farm for pottery, or other evidence of Native American inhabitants.
“Yes, but I also told Taylor that there might be something of that nature. They’ll keep their eyes open. If burial remains or anything else of historic significance is found, they’ll notify the Arkansas Archeological Survey.”
“Do you know if they’ve found out anything, any clue to who might have killed JoAnne?”
“Suspicions only, and Charles Stoker, the quarry owner, is on top of the list. Jason and I stopped in today and talked with Storm. He’s a haughty sort of fellow, but very intelligent. He seems to be good at his job. I respect the man. He showed me the photographs taken where you found JoAnne. She was almost certainly put on the hill some time about dawn on Sunday morning. They could guess it from the fact you had seen a crushed frost flower under her hand, of course, but there was lots of other evidence. Did you notice that her clothing wasn’t damp on top?”
“No.”
“It wasn’t, and the leaves under her looked like they had been damp with frost when they were disturbed, and so did those on the path down from the fire road. The photos showed that too. There was some general frost early on Sunday, and the leaves were damp for a while, but they hadn’t been the night before, and they weren’t later in the morning when you came along.”
“Have they any idea why she was moved there?”
“No, but Carrie, it almost seems as if someone wanted you to be the one to find JoAnne. How many people know when and where you usually walk in the woods? Have you thought about how carefully the body was placed near a path that you—you and JoAnne—have made? Another thing, with her red coat on someone might have noticed her from a distance. Without it, well, you’d almost have to be on your path to see her. I can think of no other reason someone would bother to take off her coat.
“And you say she was put almost exactly where Amos was shot. Can you think why someone might have done that?”
“Goodness, no. It has to have been a coincidence.”
“Who knows where Amos was found?”
“JoAnne knew, and I’m sure she told Mag because Mag walked with us occasionally, and once she asked me if it bothered me, walking past that place. Either of them could have told other people, and,” she hesitated, thinking about it, “Mag could have told Charles Stoker, the quarry owner, couldn’t she?”
“Does it bother you, walking there?”
“Not any more. I can’t erase the memory, but it’s all been way in the background—or was until Sunday.”
Henry spoke slowly. “The thing is, there just doesn’t seem to be any reason the body would be put in that spot unless it has a connection with you. It would have been so much easier to leave her in the truck. That’s why I think moving her is connected—maybe it was done to frighten you. Otherwise, it makes no sense at all.”
“Well, I don’t see any purpose. If it has to do with me, the killer lost what he intended, because I don’t get the point. Maybe the quarry owner just wants to scare the whole committee, including me. But, murder?”
An odd thought struck her. “Henry, did you think I killed her?”
“You had no reason to, did you?”
“No, I didn’t, but you haven’t answered my question.”
He looked at her sideways. “Well, I certainly can’t see you with a gun.” His eyes were sad as he continued. “I do know you suspected me. You didn’t answer when I asked if you thought my gun had killed JoAnne.”
She didn’t say anything, but the feeling of remorse must have been obvious in her face, because he smiled before he went on. “Sometimes reasons for murder and the personalities of people who kill are about as far from what you’d suspect as possible—on the surface, at least.”
“Well, I worried when Don Taylor wanted your gun. I spent half of last night sleepless over that. Tell me, what about your gun?”
“They needed to test it since it shoots the same type of bullet that killed JoAnne, but, of course, testing proved it wasn’t the murder weapon. Storm gave it back today.”
“I guess the gun is one only policemen would have?”
“No, it’s fairly common. You could buy one.”
When she looked startled, he said, “Oh, Carrie, I didn’t think... a .38 Police Special... did you suppose only someone who was with the police would have one, someone like me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m so sorry, I never thought... ” He hesitated. “But I’m glad you cared enough to worry. It’s been a long time since anyone worried about me like that.”
How sad, she thought, and said, “Don’t apologize. I do understand. All I was thinking last night seems pretty overblown now. Besides, you haven’t told me yet how stupid I was to go to the old farm.”
“You know how very dangerous it was.”
He didn’t say I was stupid, she thought, a
t least not out loud.
They smiled at each other, almost shyly, it seemed to Carrie. She knew she felt—suddenly and surprisingly—shy. Then Henry stood up and said, “I’m going home and get a few things, then come back and stay on your couch. Do you have a sheet to throw over it and a couple of blankets?”
“Henry, there’s the guest bedroom.”
“No, I saw you had the room ready for Susan and the baby. I spent lots of nights on the couch in my office at the police station. I can sleep almost anywhere after that. You go on to bed. I won’t be long.”
Carrie found a house key for him, let him out the door, and went to get a pillow and blankets. Then she sat in her chair by the woodstove wondering about head rights, and a piece of pottery, and why JoAnne’s body had been brought to her woods.
Most of all, though, she was waiting for Henry to come back.
Chapter XVI
Carrie’s furry slippers were silent on the hall rug as she walked to the door and peeked around the corner.
Well, that was no surprise. Henry was gone, and the blankets, pillow, and sheets were folded and stacked neatly at the end of the couch. He’d said last night he would go home to get ready for the drive to the airport as soon as he awakened. It was actually a relief to find him gone. She needed to be alone with her thoughts this morning.
FatCat rose from her down pillow as Carrie came into the room, angled her legs back and forth, yawned, then trotted over to help inspect the wood stove. She sat down at the edge of the stone flooring, looked up, and said, “Yowp,” which Carrie interpreted as an affirmative comment.
Yes, she agreed with the cat, it was nice. Henry had re-filled the wood box and got the fire going.
The clock said 8:30. She’d overslept again. Twinges from various places on her body had awakened her during the night, and, once awake, she got so involved in fretting over her circumstances that she couldn’t go back to sleep.
Most of all, she was upset because the stiff backbone she’d depended on all these years seemed to have collapsed. Even Amos’s death hadn’t broken through her usual ability to maintain at least a surface calm. So what was wrong now?
Was it simply that, for the first time in her life, a man had hugged and comforted her and then had carried her out of danger like a child?
Well, she thought, the fact I was in danger was my own fault. I needed help, Henry came, and that’s why things are all going backwards. Be grateful, and then forget it.
It wouldn’t happen again.
In the quiet room she imagined she heard Shirley’s voice: “Men want you to need them.” But how would a woman who didn’t have a man get along in life if she crumpled the minute some difficulty appeared? Women had to be strong on their own. Collapsing in tears never helped solve things.
“Want you to need them.” Did that mean you just let them think you needed them? Well, she was incapable of pretending she was helpless. You couldn’t let a man take over your life or you’d lose your independence—she and JoAnne had agreed on that.
Henry and she were good friends, that was all. She didn’t dare want anything more.
Besides, she’d told herself during the night, she was perfectly safe now, in her own home, lying under her pouffy comforter. Henry was sleeping just down the hall, though of course she didn’t really need a guard.
Then—alone in the dark—she shivered with the icy chill of the night’s terror and thought of Henry’s arms around her, carrying her out of danger, taking her to safety and warmth.
She’d turned on her side and started to curl up, pushing away thoughts of being close to Henry, but her bruised knees complained, so she straightened her legs.
All right. She had needed someone last night. She’d been stupid, going to the old farm alone. It was too late to change what had happened. Now what she needed was to put the night behind her and move on.
If she succeeded in helping find JoAnne’s killer, it would still prove her strength and capability to Henry, and to her family and friends. She had to remain strong. Her very life here in the woods depended on it. She couldn’t give in to masculine ideas of mushy female weakness.
And, she realized as she lay in the dark, she had the advantage of information and insights that others didn’t.
For one thing, Henry’s suggestion that the attacks could be directed at her personally was impossible. She knew that, even if he didn’t. Henry would be looking for a connection, and she already knew there wasn’t one.
So, what next? Might as well make plans, since she couldn’t sleep.
JoAnne had wanted her to know about Susan’s background and saw to it she found out. She also made sure Carrie would feel duty bound not to tell Susan, but there should be some other way to bring father and daughter together.
Well, of course! JoAnne had never said or written she couldn’t talk to Henry about his daughter. She would start by doing that, find out what he knew, what he’d done so far. Something would work out.
The quarry. It must be stopped. They had to draw a line somewhere, before this entire part of the Ozarks was logged, blasted, and paved. Most people just didn’t care enough and wouldn’t wake up in time. The five of them were probably closer to learning JoAnne’s secret than they knew. They’d surely find whatever it was—they had to.
And, most important, they would find out who killed JoAnne. The best prospect was the quarry owner, Charles Stoker. And, if they caught him, that solved two problems. How could a convicted murderer build a quarry anywhere?
She’d figure out a way to meet and talk with Stoker. She was sure she’d feel something, recall some little thing that she’d noticed about him last night. But, would anything she remembered be a real help to the sheriff? Henry could tell her that. He would know if a victim’s memory of little details worked as evidence.
Comforted by what she considered her well-thought-out plan for action, Carrie finally fell asleep.
So now she was up and ready to deal with whatever Wednesday was going to bring.
She went to the kitchen and fed FatCat. Carrie hoped the cat had elected to spend the night in her own bed and not with Henry on the couch. At least she hadn’t tried her already well-established nightly routine of trouncing around on Carrie’s bed until, after repeated removal and loud admonitions, she finally retired to her pillow-padded basket in the cabin’s main room.
Carrie was just finishing a bowl of cereal when she heard a car and peeked out the window. Henry was back.
She rinsed her dish quickly and went to the door.
“Good morning,” she said. “I’m running a bit late, but was just going to get dressed. Thanks for fixing the woodstove. I’m not sure I could do it yet.”
“You’re welcome. I was hoping I’d get here in time to put fresh bandages on your wrists before you were all dressed. I think it’d be best if you put on everything but your shirt, then got back into your robe and let me do the bandaging. Or, um, do you need help getting dressed?”
“Oh, no,” she said, “but I may be a bit slower than usual. While you’re waiting, would you mind calling the university and see if you can locate someone who’s able to tell us about state laws governing Indian remains? Rob said probably the anthropology or archeology departments. You might ask them about head rights too. Do they apply here?” She pointed. “The phone book is in that drawer.”
As she was leaving, she thought of something else and stuck her head back around the corner. “I wonder if we should bring Jason up to date?”
“Already have,” said Henry, as he picked up the phone book.
Getting dressed wasn’t easy, but finally everything went together, and she was ready. She put her robe back on, rolled the sleeves up, and stuck gauze, tape, and scissors in the pocket.
Henry was still on the phone when she got back to the main room.
She crawled up on a kitchen chair and, so he wouldn’t have to stoop while fixing her bandages, turned, sat down on the table top, put her knees together primly, her stock
ing feet in the chair, and waited.
She heard him thanking someone, then he came and began telling her what he’d learned as he unrolled the gauze.
“Talked to a professor of anthropology who does archeological evaluation for the state. There was a law passed in 1991 that prohibits desecration or commercial use of skeletal and other burial remains found on either public or private land. But after studies are done and artifacts taken care of, original plans for use of the land can normally be continued. The professor also said he’d never heard of head rights being applied here.
“I’d guess that whatever we might find could serve as a nuisance and delay for the quarry owners, but wouldn’t necessarily stop their plans. And it’s very curious JoAnne wrote down the term head rights if it doesn’t apply at all. Maybe someone just told her it did.”
He stuck down the last piece of tape. “There, you’re fixed. Your wrists look good. The cuts are closed, and there’s no evidence of infection.”
She was paying no attention to her wrists. “Well, if Charles Stoker is a murderer and we prove it, then that’ll sure stop the quarry, won’t it? I was certain I’d found a solution when I saw that piece of pottery, but now it looks like we just have to work doubly hard to convict a murderer. I’d like to meet Stoker. Maybe something about him would remind me of the man who tied me up last night. Would doing that help prove his connection to JoAnne’s murder?”
Henry didn’t answer her question. Instead, he said, “Oh. I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet, but Taylor called this morning and told me they talked to Stoker and he says he was hunting Saturday and Sunday. Alone. He says he didn’t kill any deer so didn’t go to a check station. They don’t know where he was last night yet. His wife says he was gone for a couple of hours, but he didn’t tell her where he was—or she didn’t care enough to ask. He’d left for the Missouri quarry when Taylor called this morning. By the way, the drive from Stoker’s home to our valley takes about thirty minutes. Taylor timed it Monday.”
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