Murder on Pea Pike

by Jean Harrington

  “You want to be petted, too?”

  When I strolled over to scratch him behind the ears, he darted away, disappearing behind the house.

  “Playing a game, are you?” I followed him into the rear yard.

  On a clothes line strung between two trees, a couple of old gray sheets flapped in the breeze. Under them, flat on her back, lay Violet, her legs spread apart, her skirt hiked to her waist, exposing her mysterious place for all to see. Worse, far worse, in her neck, a bullet hole oozed blood into the dust.

  The world, so solid a moment earlier, began a wild spinning. The light disappeared.

  Oh no. I grabbed at a sheet and fell, wrapped like a mummy, into blackness.

  A wet, sticky tongue lapping at my cheek woke me. Warm, doggie breath drifted over my face. How long had I been out? A minute? An hour? Afraid of what they might see, my eyes opened as slow as can be then snapped wide in shock. I had awakened next to Violet, who was staring at a sky she couldn’t see, her wispy hair blowing in a breeze she couldn’t feel. Reaching out a shaky hand, I touched her arm. Cold.

  I struggled free of the sheet and jumped to my feet. The dogs, crouching beside her, gazed up at me, droopy eared.

  “So sorry,” I murmured through chattering teeth.

  The cell. I had to get the cell. My heart leaping in my chest, I raced to the porch for my purse. I plunged a hand into it, but mealy fingered, couldn’t find a thing. Frantic, I dumped the bag’s contents onto the porch floor. Why did I tote so much stuff around anyway? I grabbed the cell, and hands trembling, tapped in 911.

  Call completed, terror slammed into me. I glanced around the yard. The killer could be anywhere, behind a stand of trees, in the meadow, in back of the barn. A crow flew cawing overhead. Had he been frightened by sudden movement? Was he warning me away?

  The car keys lay on the porch floor in a tangle of handbag junk. I grabbed them, left everything else where it was, and ran to the Lincoln. I locked myself in and turned on the engine. If anybody approached, even someone I knew, I’d rev the motor and race out of there. For a quick getaway, I moved the car, pointing the front end toward the lane. With my pulse pounding at my temples, I sat clutching the wheel, waiting for a siren’s wail.

  After a timeless blur, a cruiser—blue lights blazing, siren blaring—roared up the rise and screeched to a stop beside me. Matt shot out of the cruiser and ran over to my car. I stared at him through the closed window. He sure looked pale. Funny, I’d never seen him pale before.

  “Honey, your door’s locked. Open up. It’s me, Matt. It’s okay. It’s okay. Unlock the door.”

  “Oh. Oh.” I pressed the release.

  Matt yanked open the passenger door and unbuckled my seatbelt.

  “Come out and get some air. Come on,” he coaxed.

  I did as he asked, sucking in huge gulps of the balmy afternoon air as he walked me over to the porch and eased me onto the top step.

  “You all right?”

  Anything but. I nodded.

  “Where is she?”

  “Out back. Under the clothesline.”

  He opened his holster and removed the Glock. “Don’t move. If anyone shows up, anyone at all, yell your head off.”

  When I didn’t answer, he said, “Do you understand?”

  I nodded. “Yell.”

  “That’s good. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  True to his word, he returned in no time flat, reholstered his gun, and pulled out his cell.

  Once again, as in a dream gone bad, I watched a forensic team—the state homicide detective, the county coroner, the ambulance medics—swarm over a crime scene, asking questions and taking pictures of every detail. When satisfied that no possible clue had been overlooked, Detective Bradshaw turned his attention to me. A middle-aged man possessed of a long-jawed face and few words, he recorded everything I said twice over. The third time, he turned off the recorder and jotted notes on a notebook as I spoke.

  I tried very hard not to change my story from one telling to another. Not that I wanted to hide or twist anything. No need. Besides, I was too scared for that. But remembering everything the same way had my hands shaking by the time he flipped his notebook closed and rose from the porch steps.

  “Sheriff Rameros will fill you in as to what’s expected.” He pocketed the notebook. “The drill will be much the same as last time.” With a parting smile that I believe was meant to soothe me but failed to do so, he turned to Matt. “Got a minute, Sheriff?”

  Together they walked over to Detective Bradshaw’s Ford pickup and stood there talking. I leaned against the porch post and closed my eyes. What was that Frenchie saying for when you lived something all over again? Sifting through the fog in my mind, I searched for the words. Ah, déjà vu! You’d been there, done that, so no surprises were in store. Wrong. Some things were too horrible to be anything but raw each and every time.

  Seeing Tallulah, beautiful young Tallulah, with a bullet hole in her chest had been a shocker. Now, finding Violet spread out on the ground with her throat torn apart, had all the makings of a brand-new nightmare. Poor soul, she—

  “Honey, you can leave now.”

  My eyes opened, heavy-lidded. One foot on the bottom step, one hand on the post, Matt stared at me, his body held easy, his expression tight and troubled.

  “Think you can drive?” he asked.

  Wordless, I nodded.

  “Sure? I can take you home in the cruiser. We can come back tomorrow to pick up your car.”

  I stood slowly, like someone trying out brand new legs. “Thanks, but no need to go out of your way.” A few minutes earlier, I’d dumped everything back in my purse. While Matt watched, I fumbled around in it.

  “Your keys are in the ignition,” he said.

  “Oh, I forgot.”

  “Not surprising.” He took my hand as I stepped off the porch, his touch warm and reassuring. At the Lincoln, he let go to open the door.

  I stumbled a little over nothing.

  Matt gripped my arm. “I’ll drive you.”

  “No, I’m fine. Honest.” I waved an arm around, at the farmhouse, the barn, the quiet fields. “I just need to get away from here.”

  “I could insist.”

  I sighed. “Why? The medic said I was fine. So, outside of arresting me ….”

  He went to speak, seemed to think better of it, and nodded. “Rather than argue, I’ll agree. But I’m following you home.”

  I had no problem with that, and truth be told, was right glad to have him with me all the way. For I was in the grip of a powerful longing. I needed someone to hold me and tell me not to worry, that everything would be all right. Someone like Matt. Someone a body could trust, who was loyal and reliable and warm. Warm, most of all.

  At my apartment building, I pulled into my reserved slot. Matt parked behind me, waiting while I tugged the key out of the ignition and plucked my handbag off the passenger seat. I went over to the cruiser and leaned into the open driver’s window. “I’m beholden to you, Matt.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t take your first call. Zach and I were involved in a traffic stop. But 911 trumped that. Glad I finally got there for you.”

  But glad wasn’t what was painted all over his face. He looked grim, way south of worried, his jaw tight, his mouth a thin line. If Matt was worried enough to show it, then I should be too. But right now, at this moment, I couldn’t handle worry. I’d had enough of it in the last few days.

  In the warm afternoon, a chill I couldn’t control had me shivering. Wanting to get inside before he noticed, I backed up a step, ready to say a quick goodbye. I should have known better. Nothing escaped Sheriff Rameros.

  He climbed out of the cruiser. “Come on, Honey. Let’s get you inside. Where’s your house key?”

  “Here.” I handed it over.

  He laughed. “What’s this dangling off it? A plastic rabbit’s foot?”

  I nodded, feeling kind of stupid and old-timey. “It’s for good luck, you know, for wh
en I take a client to see a house.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever works.”

  What he didn’t say was what I suspected he was thinking. I needed all the luck I could get. After finding two murder victims in five days, I was in danger of graduating from a person of interest to a suspect.

  The shivers were raising goose bumps on my arms. I needed warming, and I needed it now.

  Matt unlocked my apartment door and gave me back the key.

  I stared at the rabbit’s foot. “Can you come in for a while?”

  A half-smile loosening his tight mouth, he glanced at his watch. “For a few minutes. I have to admit, I’ve often wondered what your place is like.”

  He followed me in, glancing around at the rose-colored living room walls, the sisal rug, and the sky-blue sofa. And across from it, my pride and joy, a forty-inch TV on its own white distressed cabinet. He even took in the pot of paperwhites on the coffee table and the picture of my momma next to it.

  “Very nice. Very you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “More than I can say in a few minutes.” His eyes were warm. So warm.

  “Then stay, Matt.”

  I dropped my purse on the sofa, and before he had a chance to move away, I grabbed him, wrapping my arms around his waist, nestling my head on his chest. Hugging a man with a loaded gun was the best feeling I’d had in years. Or ever. I purred like a contented kitten. Well, semi-contented. I wanted more, much more.

  I raised my head for a kiss. Sensing my need, or maybe driven by a need of his own, he covered my mouth with his. Soft at first, and then as if a taste wasn’t enough, he pressed me closer, keeping my mouth on his, keeping the kiss alive.

  To say I didn’t enjoy it would be a lie. I loved it. Robbed of thought, of movement, of every vow I’d ever made to stand firm until Mr. Right came along, I stood in the circle of Matt’s arms and drank in his warmth through every pore.

  When the kiss ended, his hands moved to my shoulders and he eased back a step. Holding me at arm’s length, he gazed into my eyes. “Thank you,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve dreamed of this.”

  “Then stay.” I smiled, looking into his eyes. “You haven’t seen the rest of the apartment.”

  He stiffened. “This isn’t a showing, Honey.”

  “No, course not. What I meant is, well,” I attempted a laugh and moved in for another kiss, “I’m inviting you to a pajama party.”

  His hands slid from my shoulders. He moved back a step and frowned. “You know I’d rather be here with you than anywhere else on earth.”

  “Then—”

  “But not like this. Not for a one-night stand. I want all of you, Honey. For good. Not for a fling.” A corner of his lips quirked up. “And definitely not for therapeutic reasons.”

  “It’s not like that!”

  “It’s exactly like that.” As if to keep himself from touching me, he tucked his thumbs into his belt loops. “You’ve had a terrible day, but this isn’t the way to deal with your stress. Try a little Jack. Or psychotherapy.”

  “A shrink? You have a cotton-pickin’ nerve, Sheriff.”

  “Precisely. That’s what makes me good at my job.” He pointed a finger at my nose. “And you, Miss Ingersoll, have PTSD.”

  “What?”

  “Post-traumatic stress disorder. Nothing to be ashamed of. You’re in need of comforting right now. Not sex. And I have just the solution for you.”

  “Screw your solution. You can forget about my offer, too.”

  He nodded, the frown back on his face. “I know. But as they say, you’ll be happy about it in the morning.” He strode toward the door. One hand on the handle, he paused and turned back to wink. “I’ll be in touch.”

  I snatched a pillow off the sofa and flung it at him. Missed by a mile. God, I was a rotten shot. A disgrace to my granddaddies, both of them. Never mind picking a squirrel off a dead stump, I couldn’t even hit a handsome man with a pillow.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A half hour later, the front door bell rang, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Hardly fit for company, I was curled up on the blue sofa in the old chenille robe, clutching a box of tissues. The mascara had run down my cheeks, and Lord knows, my eyes and nose were probably stoplights. Not that it mattered. I just didn’t want to see anybody right then. Didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to answer questions, didn’t want to move off the sofa.

  But the bell wouldn’t quit ringing. I tried yelling, “Go away!” It didn’t work. Whoever stood on the stoop was paying me no mind. Finally, curiosity won out. I forced myself off the sofa and padded over to look out the peephole.

  Omigod. I flung the door open. “What are you doing here?”

  Startled, she lurched back a step. “The sheriff sent me. Told me about Violet. Said you’d had a terrible day and needed comforting. Wasn’t that sweet of him?” Mrs. Otis held up a paper bag. “Jelly donuts. I thought they might help. They always help me when I’m upset.”

  She waited while I blew my nose and swiped at my eyes. “You going to let me in so’s I can make us some tea to go with these goodies?”

  “Of course. Come in, please, though I’m afraid I’m not myself tonight.” Before I could say any more, I burst out sobbing.

  Mrs. Otis gently closed the door, put her purse and the bag of donuts on the coffee table then sat next to me on the sofa and held me while I wept.

  My tears soaked the front of her rayon dress pretty good, but she didn’t seem to mind. While I cried, she patted my back and said little things like, “There, there,” and “It’s all right, dearie,” until I had no more tears to shed. With a shuddering breath, I sat up straight and blew my nose for the thousandth time. By now it could probably guide ships at sea.

  “Shall we have some tea?” she asked.

  “Sounds good.” And it did. Jelly donuts made a fine meal.

  Actually, I had four, and three cups of black tea. Mrs. Otis had six and four teas with cream, two spoonfuls of Dixie Crystals in each. But who was counting?

  “There are a couple left for your breakfast.” She twisted the bag closed. “Feel better now?”

  “Much.”

  “Told you. Donuts do it every time.”

  “Thank you for being so kind, Mrs. Otis.”

  She reached across the kitchen table to squeeze my hand. “Oh, Honey, no need to thank me. You’re the daughter I never had. It’s a darned shame you had to find those dead bodies lying around.” She glanced over a shoulder at my darkened bedroom. “Be careful. A killer’s out there somewhere, and Lord only knows who it is.” Leaning both palms on the tabletop, she groaned to her feet. “Since you’re feeling better, I’ll run along. You want to sleep in tomorrow morning, I’ll tell Sam you’re at a showing.”

  She’d lie for me? God, she was grand.

  “No need. I’ll be in at nine as usual.”

  “Well, if you say so. But if you’re not, my offer will stand.”

  I walked her to the door and kissed her goodbye, watching from the entryway as she drove off. The night breeze, hinting of rain to come, toyed with the hem of my robe and cooled my flushed cheeks. Soothed and, yes, comforted, I locked up, retrieved the cell from my purse and thumbed in a message to Matt.

  Sorry for meltdown. Now have PTED. Post-Traumatic Embarrassment Disorder. Mrs. O was an angel. Thank u. H.

  I placed the cell on the coffee table and eased back onto the sofa. Yes, I felt better, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t teetering on the edge of deep, serious trouble. Fate, or some other evil force, had put me in the path of two murdered women, one young, with her whole life ahead, the other a bitter old crone. Why those two? They probably had never met or even knew each other’s names. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling their deaths were related somehow. But why? Matt said there had been no sexual assault, no sign of robbery. Not much to steal on those poor acres, either. Just those few uncut stones ….

  I stretched and yawned. Should go to bed. Tomorrow would be ano
ther long day, but the questions kept pestering me. Tired as I was, sleep wouldn’t come any time soon. Stones!

  I bolted upright. Not the flawed diamonds, the stony farms. The land. Could that be the link to the killings? If I hadn’t had a manicure two days ago, Candy Apple Red, I’d have bitten my nails to the quick trying to come up with a reason why it might be. But for the life of me, I couldn’t.

  I slumped against the sofa cushions. Another dead end. Two lives taken and nothing else. No, wait a minute, not true. Something else had been taken. And whatever that was both women knew.

  I jumped off the sofa and ran out to the kitchen for a pad and pencil. Who had something to gain or lose from their deaths?

  Back on the sofa, I tented my knees and began. Name Number One, Charles Ames. He could have reached the Hermann farm before I did, killed Tallulah and left. But why? And why kill Violet? Stumped already. Okay, next name.

  Chester Ames. Charles’ brother and CEO of International Properties. Problem was, he hadn’t been anywhere near Eureka Falls the day Tallulah died, and I doubted he’d been here today either. The police could check on his comings and goings, but what about a motive?

  Leaving my thumbnail alone, I chewed on the end of the pencil. Sam had brought up a good point. In snapping up the Hermann farm and Sloane’s acres, was IP acting for itself or for a secret buyer? A buyer who wanted the Norton place too? Knowing that bit of information might shed a lot of light on the case.

  Who else? Violet. For a few minutes, I played with the idea she killed Tallulah and had been killed in turn. But then I drew a line through her name. Bitter though she’d been, I couldn’t believe she’d have shot a young woman to death in cold blood.

  Her nephew, Earl Norton? Yes! Like most mountain boys, he was gifted at the business end of a rifle. Heard tell, he shot rats out by the town dump on weekends for the pure pleasure of doing so. Both women had been killed with a pistol, though, not a rifle. But who was to say Earl didn’t own a pistol? His motive for killing Tallulah was cloudy, but as childless Aunt Violet’s next of kin, chances were good he’d inherit the farm. There might even be a will to back that up.