by J. L. Wilson
I backed up again, right into another car. A screeching siren went off, a discordant blast which made me jump, almost scaring the crap out of me. PJ dangled in the SUV like a lump of dough. Was that what happened to him? Was he scared to death?
People started emerging from the pub and I was shunted to one side when the police officers hurried to intercept the curious gawkers. Two other police cars arrived, the screeching car was silenced, another car alarm went off, an ambulance pulled in to the lot, and suddenly the street was full of people, cars, and noise.
I sat on the curb near the back door of the pub. Trees on the far west side of the park kept the ground relatively cool, although the pavement still radiated heat from earlier in the day. A couple of bar patrons paused to ask if I needed help, but I shook my head, not anxious to speculate on what was happening. I was going to have a hard time putting that last glimpse of PJ from my mind.
I spied Richard Fitz sticking close to the SUV, watching the white-coated people from the ambulance work around the back seat, maneuvering a wheeled gurney into place. Everyone else was kept back by five police officers who formed a loose cordon, their presence enough of a deterrent to hold the crowd at bay.
I resolutely stared at my purse resting on the pavement in front of me while my stomach did little flip flops. Whatever happened to PJ, it happened fast and was horrible. I’d never seen the aftereffects of poisoning, but for some reason that had to be what happened. The few mystery books I read talked about protruding tongues and glassy stares.
I gulped, struggling to retain the remnants of the potato chips I ate a few hours earlier. I felt like a weight was pressing me, bending me over until I was hunched in anticipation of a blow from behind.
I didn’t get a blow, but I did get a surprise. A hand touched my shoulder and I bolted upright, tipping forward when I lost my balance. I landed on my already-skinned knee and kept myself from tumbling face-first into the asphalt by flinging out one hand—a hand already bruised and scraped. “What the hell?”
Marianne Archer regarded me with wide blue eyes, her pale blonde hair pulled back from her face with a dark blue ribbon which matched the blue of the flowers on her gauzy blouse. Her faded blue denim capris were decorated with dark blue flowers, too, as were her sandals. She looks like a damn hydrangea bush. I struggled to my feet. How does she do it? It’s a thousand degrees in the shade and weeping with humidity and she looks like she stepped out of the walk-in fridge.
“I’m sorry, Tuck, did I startle you?” She gestured vaguely behind her. “I cut through the park. The street is all blocked off.”
I brushed dirt and gravel from my capris. “No, I always make a nosedive for the pavement when someone comes up behind me.”
My sarcasm appeared to bewilder rather than anger her. Her pale brown eyebrows drew together like little caterpillars touching noses on her forehead. “Were you a witness?”
“To what?”
“To PJ Fitz’s murder.” She gazed at the parking lot and the authorities gathered around the big SUV.
“Murder? Who said it was murder?” I tucked in my shirt, noting there were bloodstains on the front where my elbows got tangled with the fabric.
“I overheard the emergency technician tell Officer Peel that PJ’s Cadillac was a crime scene and it should be taped off so they can examine the ground around it.”
“It’s a bit late for taping off. I don’t know if a comment like that means that it’s murder.”
She nodded wisely, wisps of golden hair shining in the sun around her face, giving her a haloed angelic appearance. “I think it does. Did you see it?”
“I didn’t see a damn thing.” I pushed my tangled hair back from my forehead, brushing over the new wound on my face. “Shit, that hurts.”
“It looks bad, too. But it matches your black eye, at least. Can I interview you?” She held up a cell phone.
“Hell, no. I didn’t see anything so there’s nothing to interview me about.”
“It’s interesting how your pub seems to be a place where all sort of tragic activities happen.” She regarded me with polite curiosity, head tilted slightly to one side.
“Tragic? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, a fight happened here the other night and now this.” She gestured with the phone at the ambulance.
“The fight wasn’t exactly tragic.”
Her cheeks darkened, turning a becoming shade of deep pink. “It was for the people involved.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” I demanded. “Quit pussyfooting around, Marianne. Spit out whatever is stickin’ in your craw.”
“The fight the other night solidified my decision to divorce Rob, which is perhaps not a tragedy, but which does affect us negatively. And poor PJ has died, which means the factory is without a CEO. We’re lucky Richard Fitz is in town so he can step in and help.”
“Why can’t Rob step in and help?” Her coolness was more than irritating. It was unnerving, like listening to Mr. Spock intone to Captain Kirk about how an emotional decision was illogical. It was unnerving because presumably Marianne wasn’t a Vulcan and presumably she did have emotions. Presumably.
She smiled pityingly at me. “Rob isn’t capable of such management responsibilities. He can barely manage day to day operations.”
“And see what happened.” I seized on this chance to pump her for information for a change. “Someone died.”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t his fault. It was one of those undercover animal rights people, trying to smear the factory’s reputation.”
“How do you know? Did someone tell you?”
“I’m a reporter, Tucker. It’s my job to investigate and research facts. The man who was killed was here under an assumed name and they’re trying to find his family even now.” Her gaze went back to the ambulance. “The Sheriff will probably handle that investigation because it occurred at York, although our police department will handle PJ’s investigation.”
“Maybe he had a heart attack,” I suggested. “Maybe there’s nothing to investigate.”
“Maybe. Excuse me, I need to talk to the officer in charge and get a statement for the paper.” Marianne moved past me, aiming for the cordon of police personnel.
“Where’s Rob? Rumor has it he’s selling his cabin.” The words popped out of me of their own volition.
She turned like a marionette on strings, arms and legs disjointed but moving in harmony. “What did you say?”
I shrugged. “Just a rumor I heard. You know how it is in a bar, all kinds of talk goes around. I’m surprised he’s selling it.”
Marianne regarded me for a long moment, her shoulders stiff. Then she sighed deeply, shaking off her momentary paralysis. “I don’t think his real estate affairs are any of your business.” She stalked away, cutting through the crowd like a hot knife through butter.
“Bitch.” I surprised her when I mentioned knowing about Rob selling his cabin. Apparently it wasn’t common knowledge. But was it even known to her?
“You okay, Tuck?”
Sheriff Owen Knott was making his way to me from the right, skirting the parked cars now trapped in the lot by the ambulance and the police cars. “I’m fine. A bit bruised, that’s all.” Owen was an outdoorsy kind of guy with cropped gray-blond hair, a stocky and solid physique, and the prettiest gray-blue eyes like smoke on water. He reminded me of Lee Majors, a movie star who was my biggest crush in high school, evoking a feeling of nostalgia whenever I saw Owen.
He moved so his back was to the ambulance scene, effectively preventing anyone from seeing me. Tonight he wore his uniform with the pale brown shirt, black trousers, and gun belt with all kinds of gadgets hanging off of it. “Why don’t you come to the station and talk to me about what you saw here?”
“Huh?” I gaped at him. “Don’t you mean talk to you about, about, you know?”
“I told the police I’d get your statement.” He put a hand under my arm and started to steer me to the exit.
I hastily grabbed my purse and let him lead me along the perimeter of the lot. “Come to the station and we’ll talk. I’ll bring you back to your car.” His hand tightened. “We’ll stop at the hospital first and have the cut examined.”
He stopped next to one of the officers and they exchanged a few words. I eyed the huddle of people around the expensive SUV. The ambulance people were moving something onto the cart, angling it from the car. That’s when I realized the something was PJ, zipped into a black plastic bag.
“You okay?” Owen asked while I swayed, held upright by his grip on my forearm.
I blinked. “Think I’m gonna puke,” I mumbled.
He pulled me off to one side and gently pushed on my neck. “Lean over, take a deep breath,” he commanded. “I’ve got you, you won’t fall.”
I did like he said, bracing my hands on my knees and sucking in shaky gasps of air.
“You’ve been hurt.” One of his hands squeezed my neck and the other gripped my arm, firmly but gently. “You’ll be fine. Take a breath now, relax.”
Sweat pooled on my forehead, dribbling into my hairline. I don’t know how long I leaned there, gasping. “I’m okay,” I finally whispered. “It’s past. I’m okay.”
He steadied me while I straightened, his hands on my shoulders. “Hospital first, then the station. By then all this—” and he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “will be finished and you can get your car, go home, and get some sleep.”
“I don’t think I need the hospital.”
He bundled me out of the parking lot and stuffed me into a dark blue sedan sitting at the curb, several cars removed from the action. “Don’t touch anything,” he said before he hurried around to the driver’s side and got in.
I didn’t even glance at anything, much less consider touching it. I leaned my head back against the cloth seat and closed my eyes. He settled in his seat with a faint clatter of noise from the stuff on his belt then he started the car. “What happened?” I asked, still keeping my eyes closed. “What happens now?”
Owen was probably accustomed to dealing with people who were largely incoherent with shock, because he answered without hesitation. “PJ’s dead. There will be an autopsy to determine cause of death. I saw the body. I’m not sure what it was. The police will impound his car and check it to see if it was tampered with in any way.”
Well, score one for Marianne and her crime scene comment. “The woman wasn’t hurt, though.” I opened my eyes, surprised to see we were almost to the hospital on the east side of town. Did I pass out? I saw a reflection of our car in a passing storefront. Owen had put on the lights, which blinked from the front grill of the sedan. That explained our speed, I guess. “Thanks for not putting on the siren,” I said.
“You’re welcome. Are you sure you’re okay, Tuck? You’ve had a few shocks today.”
The sympathy in his voice made me turn to stare through my window. “I’ll be okay.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
I sighed. “It’s all the answer I have.”
There were four people sitting in the Emergency Room waiting area at the hospital, but I got in immediately to see a doctor. I suppose the fact I showed up with the Sheriff accounted for it. The doctor did a double-take when he saw me. “You again?”
It was the same doctor who had examined my black eye. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” I joked, sitting in the same cubicle I was in on Friday night.
He shook his head and proceeded to check my various bruises with gentle fingers, touching the side of my head and making me wince. When he rotated my right arm, it made me wince even more. Next he bandaged the cut on my cheek with those little butterfly suture things before he made me walk around for him, balancing on one leg and touching my finger to my nose.
“What was it this time?” he asked while he worked.
“A woman fell on top of me. I hit the pavement.”
“Lucky for her you were there to break the fall. Not so lucky for you.” He straightened. “There’s no sign of concussion and the cut on the cheek isn’t deep. But make sure to keep the scrapes on your elbows clean and if the bruising on your knee swells, ice it.”
“I’ll try to avoid any more confrontations,” I promised. I once again signed a million forms and was soon leaving under my own power, Owen by my side.
I plopped into the sedan and we drove six blocks east to the courthouse, a brick four-story structure occupying a city block. Owen parked in front in the slot labeled Sheriff and we went to the west side of the building, entering into an open area where two deputies sat at desks, separated from the public by a high counter.
The two men looked up when we entered. “Go on in and sit down, Tuck.” Owen piloted me through a locked gate which buzzed when we neared it. He pointed to a door on the right with his name on it. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Owen’s office was a crowded room with a faux wood desk, a computer on a side table nearby, three uncomfortable guest chairs, and a wall of dark gray metal file cabinets on the left. Two tall windows were behind the desk, blinds lowered so I couldn’t see the west side of the courthouse lawn, which I knew was outside the office. Several framed pictures and documents were on the walls but I was too tired to examine them. I sat in one of the chairs, confirming that yes, it was uncomfortable.
I set my purse on the floor at my feet. The top gaped open and I glimpsed my cell phone inside, blinking a red light at me. I wasn’t completely trained yet on this phone, but I knew it meant a missed message. I got the phone and clicked my way to the menu and the Recent Calls option. I clicked the Missing option, but No Missed Calls showed on the tiny screen.
I frowned at it. I tried a few other options, clicking one thing and another before I found Messaging. I clicked Messages and saw a phone number listed I didn’t recognize. Of course, I never memorized phone numbers anymore now that speed dial had the role of my memory.
I clicked the message and the words formed on the screen:
Stay quiet about what you know or you’ll be next.
Chapter 9
I stared blankly at the phone in my hand.
Owen came in behind me and closed the door. He crossed to the desk to sit in the black mesh desk chair and pulled a folder from a drawer. “Thank you for telling me about that arrest a few years ago. I’m sorry, Tuck, but we’ve positively identified the man who died as William Redman, formerly of Leland City, Catahoula Parish, Louisiana.”
I barely heard what he said while I tried to process the threatening words on my cell phone. “What?”
He slid a picture across the desk to me. I leaned forward. Will stared into the camera, his lips twitched upward in an almost-smile, with a hint of mischief in his eyes. I saw that look enough times in the past when I accused him of something like filching a piece of pie or teasing Old Man Moody at the barbershop. But this wasn’t a picture from misspent youth. This was a booking photo, with the height and inch markings next to his right ear.
I slid the photo back to Owen. “I guess I’m not surprised. I didn’t hold much hope you were wrong.”
“We recovered his cell phone but there was no other identification on the body. No wallet. We’re lucky his fingerprints were on file.” He leaned back in his chair. “You seem awfully calm about this.”
I checked my phone. The screen was black now, one of the power-saver features which caused it to darken and lock itself so I couldn’t butt-dial anybody. I considered showing it to Owen, but could I trust him? I didn’t know so I wasn’t going to chance it.
I raised my eyes to his then I dropped my phone back in my purse. “It won’t do any good to pitch a fit. He’s dead and it’s up to you to find who did it. Right?”
Owen seemed to be making his mind up about something, because he stared at me for a long minute before he said, “Alan mentioned you weren’t sure if you could trust me.”
“I’m not sure I can trust anybody,” I retorted. “That goddamned chicken factory and the Fitz family
have a stranglehold on this town. I don’t know who’s in whose pocket.”
“Fair enough. I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation with you, but because you’re related to the victim, I feel I owe you what explanation I can give.” He paused and I nodded once, which was all I could do after hearing the word victim.
“Redman was employed at the factory and apparently was also working undercover for an animal rights group, gathering data about the conditions in the factory.” Owen’s stormy gray eyes were cold as winter for a second. “Such activities are against the law.”
“The law was just passed. It wouldn’t have applied to Will. He’d be grandfathered in.” I tapped the edge of Owen’s desk, making my point.
“That’s still up for debate.” He raised a hand when I tried to speak. “A tip was called in to our office last night. Someone was seen prowling around the grounds at the factory.”
“Don’t they have security?”
“Very minimal. They rely mainly on locked gates to prevent access.” Owen slid Will’s picture back into a manila folder. “I doubt anyone seriously threatened plant operations.”
“Maybe it wasn’t Will. There are a lot of people who are angry with them after so many people got sick. Maybe it was someone else, maybe somebody with a grudge.”
Owen nodded. “We’re considering it. But regardless of who else was there, Will Redman was there. Like I said, our office got a tip and I went with a deputy to check it out.”
“A tip? What kind?”
“An anonymous call.”
“Can you trace it?” I demanded. “Why call you? Why not call the police in Barnsdale? I mean, did somebody call 911 and it was relayed to you, or was it called directly to you?”
He settled back in his chair, regarding me thoughtfully. One corner of his mouth quirked up. “You should be a cop. They called here directly and they used your nephew’s phone. You’re right, if someone called 911, there’s a good chance the Barnsdale police would be notified. They sometimes handle calls in York. We split up the duty since York doesn’t have a full-time police force.”