by Sheryl Lynn
Madeline sank lower on the seat. “Is that a reporter?”
“Worse.” He put the transmission in Park and shoved open the door. “Mr. Bannerman,” he yelled. “Back up the car and go back to town.”
The insurance man popped into view. “What happened? I heard there was a fire. What’s going on?”
“Hope what he’s looking for wasn’t in the house,” Madeline said.
“Please, Chief Cody, I need access.”
“If you don’t vacate these premises I will arrest you for obstruction.”
Bannerman wrung his hands and looked about wildly as if aid might suddenly appear. Carson stepped around the open door. Bannerman dived into the car and slammed the door. The tires sprayed the cruiser with gravel and dust swallowed the blue sedan.
Carson picked up the radio mike. When the dispatcher answered, he told her to contact the sheriff and request a deputy to stand guard on Hoshonee Road. Rubberneckers and reporters would be out in force.
Madeline wiped away a smirk. “You’re one mean cop.”
“Yes, ma’am.” A slow smile captured his mouth and lit up his face.
Madeline glimpsed the real Carson Cody behind the mask of sorrow. A thump in her belly warned her that romantic notions were inappropriate, not to mention ludicrous. Still, she imagined the man he used to be before her father had destroyed his life.
“We need to talk,” he said. “I have some hard questions. Are you up for it?”
“As long as I’m not a suspect.”
“Tell me about the smell in the house.”
How did one describe a smell? “It gagged me. I didn’t smell it all the time. Sometimes it was unbearable.”
“You smelled it when you first arrived? When exactly was that?”
“March fifteenth. I was up at a bead show in Minnesota. I hoped the house would be livable, but it would have taken me months to shovel out the trash. So I set up camp in the kitchen and closed off the rest. Truth is, I thought the smell came from something the vandals had left behind. Dead skunks or a deer. I never imagined it was a person.” Gooseflesh rose and she scrubbed her arms. “My head doesn’t believe in ghosts, but my heart sure does.”
“Minnesota, huh? That’s a long way to go to buy some beads.”
“I don’t go just to buy. I go to sell. That’s why I’m here, to get ready for a show in Santa Fe. I’m going for broke with my big art pieces. I hope to catch the eye of major collectors and gallery owners.”
“Ah.” He nodded understanding.
“I travel a lot. I’m used to living out of my van.” She sighed. “I’m going to miss her. We traveled a lot of miles together.”
“No insurance?”
“Liability.” She sighed again. “No insurance on the house, either. One good thing is I already paid for a booth in Santa Fe. Now I just have to figure out how to get there.”
He turned onto the drive leading up the mesa. “Talk to me about your father. He wrote you from prison, right? Did he talk about his crimes?”
“You mean, the last time he was locked up?”
“Yes.”
She fiddled with the jacket zipper. “I didn’t read them.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re all the same, okay? A lot of whining and promises he can’t keep.”
“Did he contact you before his last conviction? Give you money?”
Goose bumps made her shiver. “Money?”
He glanced between her and the narrow road. He slowed to let a pair of quails race to safety. “He did, didn’t he?”
She shifted uncomfortably and fiddled with the seat-belt strap. She grew very aware of his uniform and badge and riding in an official police cruiser. “Suppose he did, but I didn’t keep it—will I get in trouble?”
“What did he give you?”
She rubbed the locket through the T-shirt. Created from a soda can, it was clunky but charming. As much as she hated her father, she could not throw away his art. “Ten thousand dollars cash.”
Carson’s mouth dropped open.
“He said he won the lottery.”
“When exactly did he give it to you?”
“I don’t know exactly. Right before he went to prison, I guess.” She wondered if she had unwittingly aided her father’s criminal career. “I should have turned it over to the police. I didn’t want to get involved.” She studied his reaction. “I didn’t keep it. I donated it to the Indian school.”
“The whole ten thousand dollars?”
“Every bit of it. Ill-gotten goods are bad luck.” She chewed on a thumbnail. “Am I in trouble?”
“Did he give it to you personally? Drop it on your doorstep? What?”
“A box of money through the mail. I remember looking for a return address, but there wasn’t one. I think it was postmarked in Phoenix. Am I in trouble?”
“Not with me. What about after his release? Did he visit you?”
Not in trouble with him—that left a lot of other law agencies to screw up her life. “I was in Tucson in February, then Chicago, Detroit and Milwaukee. I didn’t return to Arizona until about a week…before it happened. He did visit Mama though.” She rolled her eyes at the memory. “He divorced her.”
“I thought they were married when he died.”
“And I thought they divorced years ago. In thirty years, I bet they never spent more than two or three years together. He told Mama the story about winning the lottery and she was never getting a cent. That’s why she’s mad at me. He had a jailhouse last will and testament.” She paused. “If he and Mama were married, she would inherit half his estate. She hired a lawyer to check out the lottery story. I knew it was a lie, and the lawyer proved it, but Mama is convinced he used a fake name to collect his winnings.”
Wishing for something to kick, she slumped on the seat. Half the people on the reservation were convinced she possessed a ton of money, which made her a stuck-up snot who refused to share.
Carson made a musing sound.
“Is the money he gave me connected to the body under the house? To the other…things he did?”
He picked up the radio mike. “Ten-four, dispatch. This is Cody.”
“Chief,” a woman said over the radio, “that insurance salesman is back. He’s bouncing around the station, pestering everybody for information. Can I give him your twenty?”
He waited a moment before depressing the button. “That’s a negative, dispatch. Tell him to leave a number where I can reach him later today.”
“What is your twenty?”
“I’m ten-ten for the next hour. Out.” He slipped the mike back onto its holder.
Madeline cocked her head. “I didn’t understand any of that.”
“Ten-twenty means my location. Ten-ten means I’m at home.”
They reached the house. She studied the turn-of-the-century styling with tall windows, a peaked roof and wraparound porch. The house was big enough for several families. She followed him onto the porch. Maybe it was the dusty flowerpots holding only dirt or maybe the utter silence, but the place had a sad, deserted air.
The house was clean, but the deserted atmosphere was strong. Last night she had imagined ghosts. The kitchen wasn’t too bad, with brightly colored tiles forming a backsplash and cheery curtains on the window over the sink. Carson looked her up and down. His gaze was impassive, almost clinical, as if he studied a piece of wood.
“What size shoe do you wear?”
“An eight.”
“I can’t believe I forgot shoes.” His tone was faintly admonishing, as if faulting her for not asking. “You and Jill are about the same size. Have a seat. I’ll be back.”
Madeline held a ladder-back chair and looked around at the painted cupboards, the old-fashioned linoleum on the floor and the massive knotty-pine table that could easily seat twelve. Jill Cody had cooked here, laughed here, and eaten meals with her husband and friends. Madeline felt so sad the back of her eyes hurt.
Carson’s return start
led her. He was a big man, but his step was silent as a cat’s. He carried a stack of clothing. A pair of sandals dangled from his hand.
“This will fit better.” He handed her the clothing. The sandals had tire-rubber soles and adjustable straps. Madeline owned—used to own—a pair just like them.
“You don’t have to do this, Chief Cody.”
“Call me Carson.”
“You don’t have to do this, Carson.”
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, ma’am, I do need to do this. Now I’m going on back to your house. Help yourself to the kitchen.”
“What about my beads?”
“It might be tomorrow before I can fetch them. You have my word, they’ll be safe.”
“You won’t confiscate them for evidence or anything?”
He smiled. It was sudden and blinding and genuine. Years dropped from his face and good humor eased the lines etched into his forehead. His smile transfixed her, humbled her. It was a rare gift indeed.
“I don’t recollect ever hearing about beads being a cause of death.”
He actually teased her. She lowered her gaze to the bundle of clothing. He truly was decent. Most surprising of all, she considered him trustworthy. Which was strange, because she rarely trusted anybody. She silently accepted the apology he made earlier.
He pulled a pad of paper from a drawer and wrote on it. “You know how to call nine-one-one. Here’s my cell number if you need anything else.” He drew a deep breath, expanding his chest. “I don’t want to scare you, but you have to consider the possibility it was more than arson. It could be attempted murder.”
She nodded solemnly,.
“I’ll see about getting a deputy to prevent anyone from driving up here. Whether I can or not, I don’t want you opening the doors. I don’t care if it’s your best friend from second grade, do not open the door.”
She touched her brow in salute. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you know the name of the attorney who checked out your father’s lottery story?”
“No. He couldn’t have been that good since Mama rarely has money. Doesn’t pay her bills when she does.” She stepped back to better see his face. “He didn’t actually win the lottery, did he? Can a person collect winnings with a fake name?”
“I don’t know what he was up to. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Lock up behind me.”
She walked him to the door. “Thank you, Carson.”
“Don’t mention it, ma’am.” He settled his hat on his head and left.
Chapter Five
Carson returned to the crime scene. A funny feeling gnawed at him. A tightness across his diaphragm, a low ache deep in his belly and worry in his heart.
He had felt this way ever since he pulled a pair of jeans from a drawer, a shirt from the closet and picked up a pair of shoes. Jill’s clothing for the daughter of her murderer. He decided it must be guilt. The ache spread through his abdomen. He’d resisted every suggestion about clearing out Jill’s belongings. After he moved out of the big bedroom they once shared, he hadn’t opened the door. Until today.
He’d given Jill’s things to Madeline. Right, wrong?
It couldn’t be wrong. Jill was the first to leap into action when a neighbor hit hard times. He had come home several times to a stripped pantry because of food drives. She’d been active at church, volunteered on civic committees and for the health clinic, and put in untold hours as an advisor for the 4-H club. If she were alive, she’d outfit Madeline head to toe, set her up in the best bedroom in the house and never think twice about it.
A deputy guarded the entrance to the driveway. He stepped aside for Carson’s cruiser.
Carson didn’t recognize the young man. “Any problems?”
“I turned away some locals and a reporter. Nobody gave me any trouble.”
The fire trucks were gone, though the fire chief remained on the scene. Carson glowered at Dooley Duran. The old house had gone up so quick it was doubtful the Ruff fire department could have saved anything even with an immediate response. Even so, Dooley let his personal bias get in the way of his job and Carson considered that a grave sin.
A gray haze hung over the wide clearing. There were two sheriff’s vehicles and the medical examiner’s van outside the perimeter of police tape. Pete Morales waved at him. Several men picked through the ashes. They wore tall, rubber boots and caps with bright yellow letters proclaiming Sheriff.
Pete sauntered over to the cruiser. “This is weird, chief. You might want to hear what the M.E. has to say.”
“As long as he doesn’t tell me it’s one of the Harrigans.”
“You thought that, too, huh? Want me to find out where Matt and Sug were last night?” Pete asked.
“We’re turning this investigation over to the sheriff. I don’t want a whisper of conflict of interest to screw up a conviction.”
Carson watched from the sidelines while the forensics specialists used plaster of Paris to lift tire prints and others picked through debris. The medical examiner pulled blackened bones from the ashes and laid them out on plastic sheeting. The skull was unmistakably human.
“Looks like my wife’s cooking,” Dooley said.
“Nice,” Carson said. “First you let him burn, then you make jokes.”
Dooley’s face turned crimson and he slunk away.
“John,” Carson said to the sheriff’s lead investigator. “What do you think?”
The investigator pulled off his cap and armed sweat off his face. “No doubt about it. Some sort of accelerant. My guess is kerosene. I’ll let you know for sure once the samples have gone through the lab.”
Carson nodded. Madeline had no electricity out here. He’d ask her if she used a kerosene lamp. “The body?”
“That’s the funny part. Not enough meat on the bones to put up his dukes.” He referred to the way many burned bodies were found with the arms drawn into a boxer’s pose. “It’s been under there quite a while.”
Relief rippled through him. If Madeline had killed one of her attackers, it would have been in self-defense, but that wouldn’t do her any good in Ruff.
“Man or woman?”
John shrugged. “The M.E. isn’t saying. A lot of the bones crumbled like dust. It’ll be tough making an ID. The woman who lives here, does she have a story?”
“She said she smelled something bad. Guess the body was stashed in the crawl space. Did you find anything pointing to a suspect?”
“I picked up some pieces of glass and a metal fuel can. It’s possible I can lift some prints. I’ll need prints from the home owner so I can eliminate her.”
“It’s Madeline Shay, John. Frank Shay’s daughter.”
John took a step to the side and lifted his face. “So it’s true? Woman’s either sheep-stupid or got clackers like a brass bull. Where is she now?”
“Protective custody.”
John pointed at the garage. “What’s with the lock and seal?”
“She’s an artist. I promised to protect her belongings. I’ll unlock it for you.”
While he sorted through keys, his cell phone rang. Caller ID read Pay Phone. He answered with a curt, “Cody.”
“Chief Cody, this is Ivan Bannerman. I need to talk to you right now.”
His bordering-on-hysterical tone rasped Carson’s raw nerves. “It’ll have to wait.”
“Did you find the money?”
Carson indicated John should wait. He walked away a few feet and lowered his voice. “The money is at the bottom of my priority list right now, Mr. Bannerman. If anyone stumbles over it, I’ll let you know. Until then, don’t tie up my phone.”
“You have to let me know first! Mutual Security and Assurance has policies. Procedures. If it ends up in a police evidence room, I’ll lose my job.”
And this was Carson’s problem? “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Miss Shay has to let me search now.”
“Nobody is searching anything
until the investigation is complete. Goodbye, sir.” He depressed the off button. He considered turning off the unit altogether, but Madeline might need him. He tucked the phone into its holster.
He unlocked the garage for John. “I promised the owner not to disturb her work.”
“In and out like a burglar.” John checked the settings on his camera and entered the garage.
Carson sought out Pete. “Do me a favor. Call the tribal police on Fort Apache. See if they can find out if a sizable cash donation was made to the Indian school. It would have been around four years ago, in January or February.”
Pete’s face wrinkled in puzzlement. “What’s this all about?”
“Just do it. Be sure and ask them what the exact amount was and who donated it. I’ll fill you in later.” He nodded toward the trees. “Here’s the sheriff. Have you got a copy of Madeline’s statement?”
Sheriff Gerald Poulton arrived. Carson and the investigator brought him up to speed. Pete turned over a transcript of Madeline’s statement, gave Carson a considering look then went to his vehicle to use the mobile phone.
Carson drew Gerald to the edge of the yard, far from curious ears. Gerald Poulton had a leathery complexion and sharp blue eyes. His uniform consisted of a gold badge pinned to the pocket of a white dress shirt open at the throat, black denim trousers and a pistol in a tooled leather holster that matched his boots. He had a crafty look that came with age and experience. As a boy, Carson had wanted to grow up to be a lawman just like Sheriff Gerald.
“Remember the Worldwide Parcel hijacking?”
“Everybody remembers. Why?”
“I think Frank Shay was involved.”
Gerald cocked back his white straw cowboy hat. “Where did you come up with that?”
Carson heard what Gerald left unspoken: Where did you come up with a crazy-fool idea like that?
“An insurance investigator from Nevada is convinced Shay got away with the money. He thinks thirty million dollars is buried right here.” He pointed to the dirt at their feet.