Starke Naked Dead (Starke Dead Mysteries Book 1)

by Conda V. Douglas

  “Ash trap?” Mallard asked. He raised one finger. “My grandmother had one of those.” He lowered his hand to rest it on his holster. “We didn’t search it for evidence—”

  Evidence. “Which I found.” I retrieved the framed photograph.

  Ash on the glass made the photo difficult to see. I didn’t want Mallard or Godiva any closer to the necklace in my pocket so with a corner of my apron I scrubbed the glass.

  The photo revealed a man with his arm held close around his female companion. It had been shot from the waist up, a mercy since both were naked. The woman had crossed her arms around her ample bosoms, another mercy, although flesh spilled both above and below her arms.

  Although younger, it was easy to recognize the subjects. My father didn’t look much different from the photo in the newspaper article. They stood in front of a large column, a column I now recognized as part of the burning mansion that Rupert compulsively re-created in his pins.

  I held up the cleaned photo and shoved it in Godiva’s direction. “How do you explain this?”

  Godiva reared back as if I held a snake instead of metal, paper, and glass.

  Mallard stared at the photo. Then he stared at Godiva, his eyebrows in a “V”.

  Godiva crossed the room in three steps. “Give me that.”

  I pulled it out of her reach.

  She snatched at it, her hands claws. “It’s mine.”

  “You said you didn’t know Wild Rupert very well. That you knew him as a drifter named Bertie,” Mallard said.

  “A drifter who was a fellow nudist,” Godiva said.

  “You didn’t come up here to open a nudist colony,” I said.

  “I did too.” A petulant whine crept into Godiva’s voice.

  “You came up here to find my father.”

  “What’s your relationship with Rupert?” Mallard asked.

  “I don’t have a relationship with Rupert.”

  “You’re lying,” I said.

  From the photo, it appeared they’d once been close, in fact skin tight. Given Rupert’s terrified reaction when he saw Godiva in the store, she’d hounded him, maybe blackmailed him. Had she also killed her brother, Derek, to avoid splitting the profits?

  Godiva tried another grab at the photo.

  “Hand it over, Dora,” Mallard said.

  I complied, grateful it was out of my hands and that Mallard took it as serious evidence. “What else have you lied about?” I asked Godiva.

  She stood panting, her long hair over her face, all composure gone.

  Mallard held out an imploring hand toward Godiva. “You know this looks bad. You’re at the scene of your brother’s murder. And possibly destroying evidence.”

  Or searching for the necklace. Or the money. Or both.

  “Means, motive, and opportunity,” I chimed in.

  Godiva picked up a hank of hair and tossed it over a shoulder. “No motive.” She flounced toward the door. “With Derek dead, I have nothing. Check the will.”

  “Hold on.” Mallard grabbed her upper arm. Gently.

  “Unhand me. I won’t tolerate police brutality.”

  Mallard dropped her hot potato arm.

  She pranced out to her car at an amazing clip. Godiva got in and roared off in pink glory.

  Mallard ran his hand through his hair in an imitation of Sheriff Lester. “How that old man ever did this job for so long, I’ll never know.”

  I almost suggested it might be an easier job without a murder to solve, but stopped myself.

  “Let’s go,” Mallard said.

  “Why me?” I asked again.

  Mallard gave a small groan. “Starkers,” he muttered. He gestured at the cabin door. “You need to give a statement. Out.”

  “I already gave a statement. To you, just now.”

  “Dora…”

  Urp. Out I went.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I slumped in a hard wooden chair. Too familiar.

  A few hours had transformed the sheriff’s office, and not for the better. Now I knew why Mrs. McGarrity hadn’t stuck around at my father’s cabin. She had a party to go to, or from the looks of it, maybe a funeral.

  A large bouquet of black balloons sat on Lester’s desk. One had escaped and floated near the ceiling. Across the center of the ceiling a bright lavender banner with black uneven letters proclaimed: HAPPY RETIREMENT, LES. No one ever called Lester “Les.” The S on the banner had been squeezed into the end. And he hadn’t retired; he’d quit.

  It seemed fortunate, depending on how I defined fortunate, that I had a chair, for the tiny office bulged with bodies.

  Lester ignored Mallard and me. Plenty else vied for his attention. Two-thirds of the Widows Brigade flitted around Lester’s desk. His monitor had been pushed aside to make room for a large cake with lavender frosting. A once large cake, all that remained was a tiny corner piece.

  A cluster of construction workers stood on the office side of the wall of plastic, taking a break from working on the new jail.

  Tony, the construction foreman I’d babysat years ago, seemed ubiquitous. He wore a mustache of lavender frosting over his luxuriant mustache. He gave a little wave at me and went back to his cake. His ancient jeans showed both dust and dirt.

  Would the crew soon break into the tunnel? Or the jail cell?

  Did my father now sit in the fruit cellar jail cell below and cower, afraid of discovery? Did he smell the sweet aroma of lavender cake while he ate ancient canned peaches? Or had he already run, again?

  I balanced a plate of cake on one aproned knee, the better to disguise the bulge of the necklace in my pocket.

  Mallard sat facing me, our knees almost touching. He glared around. “This party wasn’t my idea.”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “If I’d known they were cooking this up—”

  “You’d have been powerless to stop it,” I finished for him. “The Widows Brigade are a force unto themselves.”

  Mallard nodded. “An unstoppable force.” He caught on quick. We’d make a Starker out of him yet.

  I took a bite of cake and almost didn’t care that it was made with eggs and milk. Mrs. McChin remained as good a cook as her daughter, Mama Chin. Not eating vegan was the least of my problems, I decided, and took another bite.

  Where was Mrs. McChin? It wasn’t like her to miss a major opportunity for compliments on her baking. I expected I wasn’t the only one who wondered. Mrs. McGarrity occasionally glanced up from her hovering over Lester at the office door. Then frowned before resuming hovering.

  Mallard unlocked his center drawer. When he opened it, I saw Great Grandpa’s gun in a plastic bag marked with “EVIDENCE” in red. Next to it, in another evidence bag, rested a .38 that looked like the gun I found in Rupert’s cabin.

  “What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be out arresting Godiva?” I wanted to suggest he haul her in by her long hair, but that wouldn’t be Right Action, neither the suggestion nor the hauling.

  Mallard ignored me. There seemed to be a lot of that going around. He booted up his now-familiar program. “There’s a new saved file,” he mumbled.

  I leaned forward to see and Mallard shifted his shoulder to block my view.

  “Dang, Lester’s better with my program than I am,” he continued. Angst rang in every word.

  I looked at Mallard, the cake forgotten.

  Mallard had created the program that led Lester to discover Rupert’s long ago indiscretion. How long had Mallard known about Rupert and the Noira necklace? He needed money to pursue his passion. Had he decided to insure his own venture capital? Was he a blackmailer? A killer?

  Or was it Henry—Henry, desperate for capital?

  Henry was the one who’d written the article about Wild Rupert. Or perhaps it was Aunt Maddie, also desperate for money. Was I blinded by my dislike of Godiva? No. No.

  “Godiva is in this up to her naked neck,” I said.

  Mallard glanced at me at the word “naked,” snorted, and
then went back to reading the screen.

  “Godiva had a close relationship with my father.” I tapped the photograph. The metal frame cracked loud against Mallard’s desk.

  At the sound Lester looked over at us and frowned. Mrs. McGarrity and Mrs. McDay also stared, both their faces alive with their standard curiosity. I so wanted to stick out my tongue at them, but refrained. Let them have their curiosity and eat it too.

  Mrs. McDay broke the spell when she pulled out photos of her myriad grandchildren. One glance at Lester’s face and she put them back.

  I wanted to pat Lester’s shoulder and tell him…what? What could I, or anyone, say? Mrs. McDay reached out her hand as I wanted to. Lester turned away.

  “No.” Mallard pointed at the monitor screen, at a page of close-spaced text. “According to what Lester found, she’s the victim here.”

  “She is?” I had trouble imagining Godiva as a victim, but perhaps she’d been caught in the Noira’s black curse.

  “She was set up by Rupert,” Mallard said, “not the other way around. She’s the niece of the owner. The dead owner.”

  I gasped.

  …little bit of nothing, he’d called me.

  “Godiva set him up then. And she’s setting him up now.” Did I speak the truth? Had Godiva put my father up to stealing the necklace? Killing her uncle? Derek?

  “No,” Mallard said. “She was set up by Rupert. He’s the killer.”

  Anger flushed my face. “It’s as logical to say that you’re the killer.”

  Mallard leaned back in his chair, his eyebrows raised.

  “You’re blinded by Derek being found in Rupert’s cabin,” I said. “You’re not even considering who else might have a reason to kill that man.”

  “Like who?” Mallard asked.

  “Like…” Anyone who might be after the necklace, or the money. Henry, Aunt Maddie, Mallard. Or Nance. Nance, with her fervent face when she spoke of the Noira.

  “Who?” Mallard repeated.

  “Like Derek’s sister, Godiva. Who’s been here before. Who was looking for Rupert. Who lied about her relationship with my father.”

  “Rupert got close to her to get close to the necklace,” Mallard continued. “Broke her heart, he did.” He nodded to himself, as if that crime was as heinous as murder.

  Perhaps it was. Aunt Maddie came to my mind. She’d lived her life waiting for the return of love. Was Godiva another hapless casualty and my father the villain?

  No, I couldn’t believe that. My father ran and Godiva hunted him.

  “No,” I said. “What would my father do with such a necklace? Dance around naked wearing it in his cabin?” I cringed at the image my words brought up.

  I’d been so focused on finding out about the necklace and finding Rupert that I hadn’t considered why he would steal the Noira. Was its curse that strong? Or Godiva’s influence?

  “Godiva could have killed her uncle as well as Derek,” I continued. I put conviction in every word, a conviction I wasn’t sure I felt anymore. “Godiva tracked Rupert down.”

  Mallard snorted again. I hoped that frosting came out of his nose. It’d serve him right.

  “No. Godiva spoke the truth.” He pointed at the monitor screen. “Lester researched the uncle’s will.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Derek got everything in a trust fund after his uncle’s death. With Derek’s death, the fund goes to a museum. Now, Godiva’s destitute.”

  “That means she’s got every reason to—” Oops. I opened my big mouth and almost said “blackmail Rupert.”

  “Reason for what?”

  I stuffed the last bite of cake into my mouth while I considered an answer. “Reason for her to come to Starke and pursue Rupert for the necklace. Twice. She must have missed his return the first time,” I said. Stickily.

  “Naw, when we recover it, it goes to a museum.”

  Locked away, imprisoned.

  The Noira weighed heavy in my pocket. I glanced down and was horrified to see that the outline of the pendant of the woman showed faintly through the cloth. I uncrossed my legs.

  A faint clink.

  “I need my gun back, now,” I said, to cover. I pointed at the open drawer.

  Mallard blinked. He glanced down at the side drawer of his desk and looked back at me. “It’s not your gun. It’s your aunt’s gun.”

  “Actually, it’s Great Grandpa’s gun.”

  Mallard shook his head. “Whatever, or whoever—you can’t have it back.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s evidence.”

  “Evidence? It wasn’t the gun that shot Derek.” At least I could make that statement with absolute authority.

  “No, you’re right,” Mallard agreed.

  “So give it back,” I said.

  Mallard sweated.

  “Would you rather have my aunt show up here and demand it back?”

  He shuddered, set his jaw tight and shut the desk drawer. “No. There are too many guns floating around this town.”

  I tended to agree with him. “Mallard—”

  “And there’s no telling, your aunt might actually shoot somebody someday.”

  I shrugged. “Probably not. Us Starke’s aren’t very good at shooting people. Even when we do we usually miss.”

  “When you shoot people?” Mallard asked.

  Mrs. McGarrity saved me from replying by pulling a large rectangle out of her vast, lace-tatted pocket with a flourish and a “Ta-Da!”

  Several people, myself included, jumped.

  “It’s a check, for you, Sheriff,” Mrs. McDay said.

  Mrs. McGarrity held out the big check.

  Tony grinned. So did I. Us Starkers all donated to that check, although, with a guilty twinge, I wished I could have donated more. Lester deserved a lot. He’d worked hard and well for thirty years as sheriff.

  Lester reared back. “I don’t need charity.” He held up his hand in a stop gesture. “Or your pity.”

  Mrs. McGarrity clutched the check to her voluminous tatted dress. For once, she seemed at a loss for words.

  Mrs. McDay came to Mrs. McGarrity’s rescue. “Oh no, Lester dearie, it’s nothing of the sort.” Only Mrs. McDay could get away with calling Lester “dearie.” Mrs. McDay shook her head, the cherries bobbing on her hat. “We Starkers are thanking you for all the years of great service.”

  “And since this town doesn’t have a pension yet for sheriff,” Mrs. McGarrity added. “And since you quit anyway, we figured you needed the money.” Her mouth slapped shut. The widow must have realized what she’d said. She propped the check face out against Lester’s monitor. “There,” she said.

  Lester stared at the check as if a timber rattler lay there instead.

  Mrs. McGarrity looked at Mrs. McDay, dismay all over her face. Mrs. McDay raised her eyebrows and her arms. Mrs. McGarrity smiled and nodded and the two old ladies launched into an off-key and raucous version of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Tony and the other construction workers joined in.

  Mallard and I did too. I tried to drown out everyone else to let Lester know how much he’d meant to me growing up. Mrs. McGarrity glared at me. I realized how much I’d miss Lester. Another person who was leaving my life. I thought I’d be used to it by now.

  Mrs. McChin burst into the office, one pure white braid loose and flopping on her face. “Henry’s on the roof and he’s threatening to kill himself!”

  TWENTY-THREE

  We all clustered around Cam’s Auto Shop where Henry stood on top of the building’s false front. He balanced precariously on the thick wood cap, above the “C” in Cam’s. Behind him, a backdrop of smoke. Surreal. Unreal. Too real.

  With a gulp, I remembered the high school nights Henry and I spent on that roof, making out. Why did Starkers always end up on the roofs? Was Nance right when she said, “You mountain people, you always want to go higher,” whenever I outreached my jewelry making skills? Maybe. But maybe not for the re
ason Nance believed. Maybe we only wanted to get closer to our mountains.

  Henry waved an object around.

  I squinted. That couldn’t be—Ohm, it was. A gun. Another one. That was the trouble with living in Idaho. Everybody had guns.

  “Everybody stay back,” Henry said, a cliché. Of course, he was under a great deal of pressure.

  I waited for my aunt’s voice to ring out with a snappy comeback such as, “Well, duh, Henry.” No, that would be my snappy comeback. Hers would be “Henry, get down from there, right now, you idiot.” And he would.

  Where was my aunt? The Widows Brigade stood next to me, close to the front, as a matter of course. Mrs. McChin had re-attached the braid to the crown of her hair, thereby restoring the signature Chin look. The construction crew, led by Tony, clustered behind Lester and Mallard. Most of the other Starkers scattered around in a loose semi-circle. The doggie developers stood outside the circle, the curs.

  Nowhere did I see my aunt. I didn’t see Nance either. How odd. They both adored being in the thick of it, whatever it was.

  “Now, son, put the gun down,” Lester said.

  “No.” Henry’s voice sounded dark and hard. Not like Henry.

  “What seems to be the problem, Henry?” said Mrs. McChin.

  Henry gazed at Dog Face Mountain. He seemed not to have heard. Across the muzzle of the Dog wisps of cloud floated, serene, detached from human suffering.

  “Is it because of your business going bust?” Mrs. McDay said.

  Henry dropped his chin. His face twisted in shame.

  I caught the Alpha Female of the Sun Dog Developers giving a small, smug smirk. “Shoot her,” I wanted to say to Henry.

  “Don’t worry, Henry,” I said instead. “Camerons lose everything. It happens all the time.” It did, like clockwork.

  Henry looked at the gun in his hand.

  “Henry, put the gun down,” Lester repeated, with more force in every word. Lester stood, loose limbed, his arms at his sides. One hand rested near his gun, almost as if a casual gesture yet I sensed that Lester could pull that gun as fast as any gunslinger.

  “Camerons always come back,” I added, “even richer than before.”