by Rita Herron
“I’m afraid not,” Megan answered. “But the bullet that killed him was from a .45.”
“Hmm.”
“Something bothering you about the report?” she asked.
“Not the report per se. But I talked to Sheriff McCullen from Pistol Whip. Apparently Morty Burns was married to a woman named Edith Bennett.”
“Yes, I saw that,” Megan said.
Deputy North grunted. “Well, her brother is Arlis Bennett, a man the sheriff suspects is working with Boyle Gates.”
There was the name Bennett again. “Has Burns’s wife been notified of his death?” Megan asked.
“Not yet,” the deputy said. “I phoned and there was no answer at her place. She lives near Pistol Whip, not Laredo.”
Megan drummed her fingers on the desk. “I can go out and talk to her.”
“We really should have an officer present. This is a murder investigation now.”
“All right, I’ll get Deputy Whitefeather to accompany me.”
“Good. Sheriff McCullen thinks Burns’s murder may be related to the trouble at his ranch. That he might have been paid to set the ranch fires and that he might have been killed to cover up what he did.” He paused. “Anyway, I was hoping you’d found some DNA to tie his death to Gates or Bennett.”
“I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you more.”
He thanked her and hung up, and Megan stewed over the information.
It hadn’t occurred to her that a murder victim who’d been on her table might be connected to the McCullens.
She texted Roan to relay the deputy’s statement and explained that she’d meet him at the woman’s home to make the death notification—and question the woman in case she knew who’d taken her husband’s life. There was always the possibility that this murder was not related to the McCullens, that it was a domestic dispute gone bad or that Burns had gotten himself in some kind of trouble. Maybe he owed someone money...
Her phone beeped indicating a response to her text, and she read Roan’s message. At Horseshoe Creek now. Will meet you at the Burns farm. Wait for me.
She texted back OK, then grabbed her purse and rushed down the hallway.
Outside, the sun was setting, storm clouds rolling in, the wind picking up. The parking lot at the hospital was still full, though; the afternoon-evening shift hadn’t arrived, and an ambulance was rolling up.
She hit the key fob to unlock her car, jumped in and headed toward the address for the Burnses’ farm.
Traffic was thin as she drove through town, the diner starting to fill up with the early supper crowd. She made the turn to the highway leading out of Pistol Whip, and ten minutes later found the farm, a run-down-looking piece of property that had seen better days.
Overgrown weeds choked what had once been a big garden area, the fences were broken and rotting and the house needed paint badly. Her car rumbled over the ruts in the dirt drive, dust spewing in a smoky cloud behind her.
She scanned the property for life, for workers, but saw no one. Just a deserted tractor and pickup truck in front of the weathered house. She parked and glanced around, suddenly nervous.
She didn’t know anything about this woman, except that her husband had been murdered.
Suddenly the door on the side inched open and a cat darted out. Megan’s stomach knotted when she noticed blood on the cat’s fur and paws.
Fear momentarily immobilized her, but her instinct as a doctor kicked in, and she threw the door open and climbed from her car. She scanned the area for someone suspicious but saw no one. The cat ran into the barn behind the house.
She eased to the porch, one hand on the mace in her purse, her phone at her fingertips in case she needed to call for help. Wind beat at the house, banging a shutter that had come loose against the weathered wood.
She crept up the rickety steps, the squeaking sound of rotting boards adding to her frayed nerves. By the time she reached the front door, perspiration trickled down the back of her neck. Senses honed, she paused to listen for sounds inside.
The wind whistled through the eaves. Water dripped from a faucet or tub somewhere in the house.
The smell of something acrid swirled in the air as she poked her head inside. The living room with its faded and tattered furniture was empty. She took a deep breath and inched inside the door.
A sick feeling swept over her when she spotted the woman lying in the doorway from the kitchen to the den.
She lay in a pool of blood, one arm outstretched as if she was reaching for help, her eyes wide-open and filled with the shock of death.
Chapter Six
Roan polished off the cinnamon roll and thanked Mama Mary. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted. “Mama Mary,” Roan said. “Do you know a man named Morty Burns?”
“Can’t say as I do,” she said with a puzzled look. “Should I?”
Roan shrugged. “How about a woman named Edith Bennett? She was married to Burns.”
Mama Mary frowned. “Bennett? Why, yes, Edith used to be good friends with Grace. Although her brother is Arlis Bennett? And she did used to visit Joe from time to time. Why?”
“That text was the ME’s office. Edith’s husband was found shot to death. I wondered if he worked for Bennett.”
She fluttered a pudgy hand to her cheek. “Well...I don’t know. I can’t imagine Edith and her husband doing something illegal. You think someone killed him because he was sabotaging Horseshoe Creek?”
“At this point, I’m considering all angles.” He folded his hands. “Who else visited Joe?”
Mama Mary wiped her hands on her apron again. “Hmm, well there was another rancher named Elmore Clark. He owed Joe ’cause he got in trouble with his mortgage and Joe bought some of his land to help him out.”
“So he had no reason to hurt Joe?”
Mama Mary shook her head no. “Not that I’m aware of.”
Roan would check out the man. Maybe he hadn’t liked the terms of the sale?
“Did Joe tell you how he’d structured things in his will?”
Mama Mary brushed at the specks of flour on her apron. “Not the specifics. He just said everyone in the family would be taken care of.” She made a low sound in her throat. “I urged him to talk to the boys about Barbara and Bobby, but he had so much guilt over the affair he’d had. And frankly I think he was too weak to face the hurt he’d see on their faces.”
“So you knew about Barbara when he had the affair?”
She blinked and looked away. “I’m not going to gossip about this family. Joe made mistakes, but he was a good man.”
“I’m not judging him,” Roan said, tempted to confide in her that the man had been murdered. She obviously loved Joe and would want the truth.
Although she was protective of the family and probably wouldn’t welcome him into it any more than Maddox or Brett or Ray. “Neither am I, Mama Mary. I’m simply trying to understand the situation so we can catch whoever is sabotaging Horseshoe Creek.”
She relaxed a little. “Barbara and Bobby and Boyle Gates are the only three I can think of.”
Maybe he should have a chat with Boyle Gates. His phone buzzed and he checked the number. Megan.
“Thanks, Mama Mary. If you think of anyone else who visited or anything else that can help, call me.”
She pushed her bulk to her feet with a heaving sound, then caught his arm as he started to stand. “Deputy Whitefeather, is there something you’re not telling me?”
Roan met her gaze. Again he was tempted to confide the truth about the patriarch of the family’s death. But Maddox and Brett and Ray deserved to know first. So he shook his head, punched Connect on the phone and headed out the kitchen door.
“Deputy Whitefeather.”
“Roan, it’s Megan... You should get out here.”
His pulse hammered. “What’s wrong? Where are you?”
“At the Burns farm...” Her voice cracked. “Edith Burns is dead.”
* * *
MEGAN T
OOK DEEP breaths as she stared at the pool of blood on the floor surrounding the woman’s body.
She yanked gloves from her purse and tiptoed inside, listening for sounds that an intruder was still there. The linoleum floor squeaked as she crossed the den to the doorway of the kitchen. She clenched the phone in one hand as she stooped down to check the woman’s pulse. Not that she had any doubt that she was dead. The odors and pallor confirmed her suspicions.
But it was routine and she needed to determine time and cause of death.
“Megan, you’re sure?”
“Yes.” Dried blood soaked the lady’s yellow housedress. “It appears that she bled out from a gunshot wound to the chest just like her husband.”
“I’m on my way,” Roan said. “Wait till I get there to go inside.”
“I’m already inside,” Megan said. “I saw blood from the doorway and had to see if she was alive.”
“Dammit, Megan, what if the killer is still there?”
“He’s long gone, Roan. Judging from rigor and body decomp, she’s been dead several hours.”
“You’re alone?”
She twisted to listen for sounds again, but barring the wind battering the wood frame and windowpanes, everything was quiet. “Yes. I’ll call a crime team to start processing the house.”
“Do you see a bullet casing or weapon anywhere around?”
Megan lifted the woman slightly to search for an exit wound, but didn’t see one. “The bullet must still be lodged inside her. I don’t see a weapon anywhere.”
She did a quick visual sweep of the kitchen, at least what she could see of it. A bowl of fruit sat on an oak table, fruit flies swarming. A kitchen island held a cutting board where potatoes and carrots lay, a knife on the board as if Edith had been preparing dinner when whoever killed her had struck.
From where she stood, she couldn’t tell if the back door had been jimmied or if the killer had broken in.
If so, had Edith heard her attacker?
She checked the woman’s fingernails, but didn’t see visible signs of DNA or skin cells, but she’d scrape and run tests to make certain. No blood or hair fibers.
What about that knife? Had Edith tried to fight off her attacker with it?
She carefully stepped around her body, searching for footprints or evidence, and spotted blood splatters on the floor near the island, although the knife didn’t appear to have blood on it.
She studied the kitchen layout and pieced together a feasible scenario. Perhaps the killer had entered through the back door, which meant Edith was facing away from him. But she’d been shot in the chest.
So...she must have heard a noise and turned to see what or who it was. Maybe she even knew the shooter, so she didn’t instantly run.
The killer then fired the weapon. The bullet struck her heart and she grabbed the island in shock. Blood had spurted from the wound immediately, splattering droplets on the floor.
She staggered toward the den and collapsed in the threshold of the door. She was trying to go out the front...maybe to get to her car? Maybe to reach her phone and call for help?
But she’d been bleeding badly, quickly grew weak and lost consciousness before she could make it to the door or her phone.
A shiver rippled up her spine. Had the same person killed Morty Burns, then came here and shot Edith?
Or...she had to consider the possibility that it was murder-suicide. Morty could have shot Edith then left and killed himself.
Except...the timing didn’t seem right. And most suicides were gunshots to the head—Morty’s had been to the heart. Also, if he had committed suicide, why wouldn’t he have killed himself here beside his wife?
Morty’s body had been dumped...
Which brought her back to the intruder theory. What kind of cold-blooded person shot an innocent woman and simply stood there and watched her die?
And why kill either of these people? Were their deaths connected to Joe McCullen’s?
* * *
QUESTIONS ASSAILED ROAN as he sped toward the Burns farm.
The fact that Edith was related to Arlis Bennett, the cousin of a man who Joe’s sons had put in jail for cattle rustling, seemed too coincidental not to raise suspicions.
He had to discuss the situation with Maddox. Finding the couple’s killer could be instrumental in determining who’d poisoned Joe.
Storm clouds moved in the sky, painting the run-down farm a depressing gray. The pastures and fields were overgrown, the farm equipment looked rusty and broken down and the barn needed a new roof. He saw no cattle or horses on the land, either.
Had money troubles driven Morty to help Boyle Gates or his brother-in-law sabotage Horseshoe Creek?
His police SUV rumbled and he rolled to a stop beside Megan’s van. On the lookout for trouble, he scanned the perimeter of the property in case someone was lurking nearby.
Dead leaves swirled in the wind across the brittle grass, and the door to the toolshed next to the house banged back and forth. An engine rumbled and he turned to see the crime team’s van racing over the hill.
He glanced back at the house and saw Megan step into the doorway. Her hair was pulled back in that tight bun again, her glasses in place. Her expression was stoic, eyes dark with the reality of what she’d discovered in the house.
For a brief second, he wanted to sweep her away from the gruesomeness of her work and his job. Take her someplace cozy and romantic like a cabin in the mountains where they could float down the river on a raft then curl up on a blanket and make love beneath the stars.
Car doors slamming jerked him from the ridiculous thoughts. He was not a man who made love under the stars or...made love at all. Sex was a physical release.
It had been good with Megan. Damn good. But it wouldn’t happen again.
She did her job because she liked it and was good at it just as he was good at solving crimes. Dead bodies were their life.
Not cozy mountain retreats.
“Dr. Lail called,” Lieutenant Hoberman said as he and two crime techs approached. “She found a body?”
Roan nodded. “Yes, the wife of a murder victim she’d autopsied.”
Lieutenant Hoberman’s brows rose. “Both murdered?”
“It looks that way. Maybe you can help us pinpoint what happened.”
Together they walked up the drive to the porch and climbed the steps. “You okay?” Roan asked Megan.
She gave a short nod, then led the way inside. The stench of decay filled the air, the sight of the woman’s body fueling Roan’s anger when he spotted her gray hair and gnarled hand reaching out as if begging for help.
Everyone pulled on latex gloves as they entered, and then they gathered around the victim. One of the crime workers began snapping photographs while the other started searching for forensics.
“It looks like she was cutting vegetables when someone entered from the back of the house,” Megan said. “I think she heard the noise and turned to see who it was, then he shot her in the chest.”
Poor woman was probably in her sixties. Dozens of pictures of her with a slender thirtysomething woman sat on the bookshelves. Then photos of Edith and a dark-haired boy and girl along with a card that read, “Happy Mother’s Day, Grandma.”
Roan’s chest squeezed. She was a grandmother for God’s sake.
She hadn’t deserved to be gunned down in her home.
Roan’s phone buzzed. Darren Bush. He excused himself and stepped on the front porch to take the call.
“Deputy Whitefeather, I got your message.”
“Yes, we’re still investigating the fires at Horseshoe Creek. When did Joe McCullen make his will?”
“Ten years ago, but he reviewed it each year.”
“Did he make any significant changes in the last few months before his death?”
“No. Well, he did purchase a couple more plots of land. He added one of those in the settlement. It went to Bobby Lowman.”
Right. “So he didn’t plan
to change his will and cut Barbara or Bobby out?”
“No, God no. He was adamant about taking care of his family.”
That stripped Bobby and Barbara of a possible motive—other than their own bitterness.
Roan thanked him and hung up. Lieutenant Hoberman returned from inside the house carrying a calendar. “Look at this, Deputy Whitefeather. Morty Burns met with his wife’s brother Arlis the morning he died.”
* * *
MEGAN CATALOGED THE details of the crime scene. For some reason the older woman’s face had gotten to her. Judging from the pictures on the mantel and bookshelf she was a cookie-baking grandmother who doted on her grandchildren.
It was a senseless death that made Megan determined to find justice for Edith.
“I’m going to notify Arlis Bennett about his sister,” Roan said. “If he knows something and is holding back, maybe his sister’s murder will be incentive enough for him to talk.” He gestured toward Edith as the medics carried her body to the ambulance to transport her to the morgue. “Let me know what you find on the autopsy.”
“I will.” Megan’s phone buzzed as she strode toward her van. “Dr. Lail.”
“Dr. Lail, this is Ruth Cumberland. What in the world did you say to my husband to upset him so much? I’ve never seen him so distraught. I thought he was having a heart attack.”
Megan bit her lip. Obviously Dr. Cumberland hadn’t revealed her findings. She couldn’t disclose the details, either. “I’m sorry he’s not feeling well, Mrs. Cumberland. The past few weeks seem to have gotten to him.”
A tense moment passed. “There’s more to it than that, and I think you’re the cause. I realize you’re young and think you know everything, but my husband is a good man. So leave him alone.”
Megan’s pulse hammered at the accusation in the woman’s voice.
She opened her mouth to respond, but the phone clicked into silence. Troubled by Mrs. Cumberland’s reaction, Megan started her van and left the farm.
Even if she was upsetting people, Megan had a job to do, and she didn’t intend to be intimidated. She’d admired the ME who’d pushed to find the truth about her sister’s death, and she would push for the truth for the victims who wound up on her table.