Sinking Suspicions

by Sara Sue Hoklotubbe

  He found a place to stand against the wall, blend in anonymously, and observe the activities. The drum, drummers, and singers were situated in the center of a huge circle. Lance couldn't see the emcee, but he could hear his deep voice as he announced the next song. It would be an honor song for all veterans. Lance smiled inside. He was proud to be a veteran, but more than that, he was proud to be an Indian veteran, knowing that Native people had served their country in the military with great distinction in a higher percentage than any other ethnic group in the United States. He moved closer, momentarily, and nodded to one of the veterans he knew.

  The drums echoed loudly in the building and the headman dancers entered the circle, which signaled the other dancers to join in. Each man wore a bandolier and a blanket made of red and blue cloth. They held a fan of feathers in one hand and a gourd rattle in the other. The singers' strong voices carried high above the crowd as Lance began to work his way along the wall away from the dancers, weaving his way among the tables of beadwork, baskets, and other artwork, watching the dancers and spectators with equal scrutiny. It was a habit that wore on him at times, a habit of law enforcement he could never shake, not even for one night. Just when he decided to relax and enjoy the dance, someone caught his eye.

  Among the drummers and singers in the center of the circle, an old man stood leaning on a walking stick. He wore a long-sleeved, colorful shirt, new-looking jeans, cowboy boots, and a straw cowboy hat, a feather slid under a beaded hatband. It was Buck.

  Lance laughed out loud as he reached for his cell phone and headed for a nearby exit. “The eagle has landed,” he said when Sadie answered, and then laughed at her confusion. “I found Buck at the gourd dance,” he continued. “I'll make sure he gets home okay. Go home and get some rest.” He chuckled again as he closed his phone, reentered the building, and headed straight toward the concession stand.

  As he waited his turn to order, he watched Buck sing. His respect for the old man had grown day by day, especially after he'd found the treasure box full of Buck's World War II medals. To everyone around him, Buck looked like an ordinary old man, but Lance knew he was a warrior, a warrior who kept his memories of battle hidden from the rest of the world, just as he himself did. Buck had experienced things in war that many of the people around him today, in this very circle of dancers, would never be able to fathom. Lance realized he was going to have to admit to the old warrior he'd taken his letters, apologize for the intrusion, and return them to him. He didn't look forward to that conversation.

  Lance turned back to the counter just as a woman next to him reached for a can of soda. Above her thumb and forefinger, a tattoo of pink roses adorned the top of her hand, reaching all the way to her wrist. Something clicked in his brain, and he looked at the woman's face. It was Cynthia Tanner's little sister. She glanced at Lance, grabbed her drink, and quickly retreated into the crowd.

  “Wait,” he called after her.

  She turned and with a look of panic threw her soda at him, hitting him in the chest, and ran out the nearest door.

  “Stop,” he yelled and ran after her.

  By the time he worked his way through the crowd and followed her out the door, she'd already made it across the street and ducked between two parked cars. Anticipating her route of escape, he cut her off at the end of the street and grabbed her arm.

  “Stop! You're hurting me,” she screamed.

  “Stand still and I'll let go.”

  Breathing hard, she pulled her arm free. “Who are you and why are you chasing me?”

  Lance flashed his badge at her. “I'm chasing you because you're running. People who run tend to be guilty as hell. What's your name?”

  “Becky Tanner,” she said.

  “Cynthia Tanner's sister, right?”

  “She's a drunk,” she retorted as tears welled up in her eyes.

  “Why did you toss your drink at me and run, Becky?”

  “I thought you were someone else.”

  “Like who? Who do you think you need to run from?”

  The girl pushed her hair out of her eyes with her tattooed hand and remained silent.

  “That's a unique tattoo,” he said.

  The girl looked at her hand and then shoved it in her pocket.

  “Tell me, Becky,” he said. “You wouldn't happen to own a baseball glove, or come to think of it, maybe it's a softball glove, one with a drawing on it, would you? One that matches exactly the tattoo on your hand there? Pink roses?”

  She wiped her nose on the back of her other hand. “I coach high school ball. I've got a lot of softball gloves. That's how I'm going to college, you know. I've got a full scholarship for softball.”

  “We found a glove with pink roses on it near the highway, not far from a vehicle someone drove away from a crime scene.” Lance tried to read her face. “I think you know what crime scene I'm talking about, don't you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Lance stared at her for a moment and noticed a cut on her forehead, hidden mostly by her bangs. “Want to come clean here, or do I need to call the Sycamore Springs Police Department?”

  “Go ahead,” she said in a defiant tone. “I didn't do anything wrong.” She looked nervous. “And I don't have to tell you anything. That badge isn't from around here. It could be a fake. I learned a long time ago, you can't trust men.”

  “I'm sorry you feel that way, but that doesn't give you a license to kill.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Did you kill your sister's boyfriend?”

  Becky's eyes grew wide. “You can't pin that on me. The only thing I've got to say about that jerk is that I'm glad he's dead—and Cynthia should be glad, too. He was eventually going to kill her, you know. He beat her all the time.” She lifted her chin in the air. “Good riddance is all I've got to say. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go.” She turned on her heel and walked back toward the community building.

  Lance let her go. She was right. He was out of his jurisdiction, and he hadn't witnessed her commit any crime other than soaking his shirt with a soda. He looked at his chest and wiped at it with his hand. It was already almost dry in the summer heat.

  He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Charlie McCord. “Hey, Charlie, can you meet me at the community building? I've got two birds in a bush, and I think you might be interested in them…. Well, it's a woman with a tattoo and an old man leaning on a walking stick.” Lance chuckled, dropped his cell phone in his shirt pocket, and walked back to the building.

  The drums had gone silent. The gourd dance had stopped for a while so the dancers and the crowd could take a dinner break. He noticed Becky standing in the long line for food, but he didn't see Buck anywhere. Buck's hat should make it easy to pick him out in a crowd, he thought. He scanned the whole arena. Nothing. He recognized one of the drummers and approached him. “Can you tell me where the singer, Buck Skinner, might be?” he asked.

  The young man shook his head. “No. He disappeared right after we finished the last song.”

  Lance shook his hand. “Thanks,” he said. “He does that a lot.”

  The drummer walked away, and Lance felt a presence behind him. He turned to find Charlie McCord, still dressed in his uniform, standing not far away scanning the crowd.

  Charlie approached Lance. “Where are these birds you're referring to?”

  “I had my sights on the one that flew out of the hospital window a while ago, but he seems to have flown the coop again.” Lance laughed. “The other one is in the food line over there.” He pointed with his chin. “Cynthia Tanner's little sister. Her name's Becky and surprisingly enough, she's got a tattoo on her hand that matches the drawing on the softball glove we found near the getaway truck. Seems to me she might be a likely candidate for killing her sister's boyfriend. There's certainly no love lost between them.”

  “Hmph.” Charlie smirked. “Did you question her?”

  “Nah, not much.” Lance continued to keep his eyes on th
e Tanner girl as he spoke to Charlie. “She doesn't appreciate my out-of-town badge, and I don't blame her. That's why I called you.”

  “Well, let's go see what she's got to say, then.” Charlie walked straight to Becky Tanner and then escorted her to an exit. Lance went out another door and met them both at Charlie's cruiser.

  “Am I under arrest?” Becky sounded scared.

  “No, of course not.” Charlie opened the back door of the police car. “We just need some information, and we thought you might be able to help us out.”

  Becky reluctantly slid into the backseat. Lance got in on the other side of the car, but left the door ajar with his foot on the ground in case he needed to make a quick exit.

  Charlie took his place in the front seat behind the wheel, started the car, and adjusted the air-conditioning vent toward him. “You getting enough air back there?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he retrieved a pen and small notepad from behind the car visor and began to recite her Miranda rights.

  “Do you understand your rights?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Can you tell us where you were last Sunday morning?”

  “I was at a friend's house,” she said, firmly.

  “Got a name we can confirm that with?”

  “No.”

  Lance spoke up. “I noticed you have a cut or a bump on your forehead. Did you get that playing softball, by any chance?”

  Her hand shot up to her head. “No, uh, I accidentally ran into a door.”

  “Do you mean a door, or someone?” Lance waited a few seconds before continuing. “Did your sister's boyfriend ever hit you?”

  She nodded. Tears filled her eyes, and she began to quietly sob.

  “Would you be willing to give us a blood sample so we can eliminate you as a suspect?” Charlie asked.

  “Blood sample?” Alarm filled her voice and fear crossed her face.

  “The driver of the getaway vehicle smacked their head on the windshield and left behind a little bit of blood,” Charlie continued. “Wouldn't take but a few minutes, and then you'd be cleared of any suspicions.”

  Becky began to cry openly. “I am so sorry,” she sobbed. “I am so sorry.”

  Lance placed his hand on her shoulder. “What are you sorry about?”

  “I hated him and I wanted to kill him. I killed him in my mind every time I saw him. He was a monster.”

  Lance handed her his handkerchief.

  She wiped her nose. “He raped me,” she said.

  “Did you kill him in self-defense?” Charlie didn't sound surprised.

  “No. I swear.” Becky shook her head. “He was already dead when I got there. A friend dropped me off and I found Cynthia's door open. I went inside and didn't see anyone so I got Cynthia's gun. She keeps it in the hall closet.” She blew her nose into the handkerchief. “But when I got back to the bedroom, there he was, lying on the bed. He looked like he was dead, I didn't think he was breathing, so I ran away as fast as I could. When I saw the police car at the manager's place, I hid in the bushes behind the neighbor's trailer until I thought I could get away. Benny always leaves his keys in his truck, so I jumped in and took off.”

  “You mean you're the one that caused that chicken disaster?” Charlie sounded amused.

  “I didn't mean to,” she said. “I could hardly keep that truck on the road.”

  “And you crashed the truck, hit your head, and ran,” Lance said, “and in the process you lost your softball glove. Is that right?”

  Becky nodded. “Yeah,” she said, and then with urgency continued, “but I didn't kill him. I wish I did, but I didn't.”

  “What'd you do with Cynthia's gun?” Lance asked.

  “I don't know what happened to it.” Dread crossed her face. “I just freaked out. I had to get away.”

  “Becky, do you know anyone else who might have wanted to kill Benny?” Charlie asked.

  “No,” she said. “But I'm glad he's dead.”

  “Yeah, you already said that.” Charlie let out a long sigh. “Are you willing to sign an affidavit stating what you just told us?”

  Becky slung her hair behind her shoulders. “I guess so.”

  “We'll need fingerprints and a blood sample,” he added.

  Becky nodded. “Okay.”

  Charlie and Lance both got out of the vehicle and left Becky locked inside.

  “I think she's telling the truth,” Lance said. “I think she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “You never know. You heard her say she wanted to kill him.”

  “What about the gun?” Lance asked. “Was it the murder weapon?”

  “Don't know, yet. Should have the report back anytime. But, from early indications, it's the wrong caliber. Cynthia's gun was a .32 revolver, a little Saturday night special. The shell casing the detectives found at the scene came from a .45. The print on the casing didn't match any in the database. We'll see what the ME says.”

  “Like I said,” Lance interjected. “I think she's just an innocent bystander in all this.”

  Charlie leaned against the cruiser. “I do have the victim's real name, though. His fingerprints came up with a match in the state of Hawai‘i. He spent a couple of days in the Maui County jail for DUI.”

  “That's interesting. What's his name?”

  “I'd tell you, but I couldn't pronounce it even if I wanted to. I'll get it for you. Turns out he's a Samoan and was living in Hawai‘i before he moved to Texas a while back, and then on to Oklahoma. We've traced his fake Hawai‘i driver's license back to an identity theft ring on Maui.”

  “How'd they get the old man's name and social security number?”

  “Well, Sport, I'd ask the victim, but he's dead.”

  Lance rolled his eyes and turned to reenter the building.

  “You realize,” Charlie said, “if she's telling the truth, this means Buck Skinner is still the only one we have with a motive for murder.”

  Lance waved as Charlie got back into his cruiser and pulled onto the street. The drums had begun to echo in the building again. He hoped the fry bread wasn't all gone.

  Chapter 31

  The next morning, Sadie awoke to the smell of smoke. She opened her eyes and sat straight up. She'd overslept, as evidenced by the streaks of blinding sunlight streaming through her bedroom window. Her exhaustion had overtaken her the night before and she'd slept deep and hard, and now her mind felt foggy and her body ached. Where was the smoke coming from? She jumped out of bed and ran to the window. In the east, she could see a plume of smoke snaking toward the sky and, although she couldn't pinpoint it, she knew it must be near the road.

  She mumbled under her breath as she quickly dressed, blaming some idiot who had probably pitched a cigarette out his car window. Left unchecked, a fire could spread unmercifully across the parched countryside and swallow up everything in its path.

  She dialed Lance's cell phone number as she walked outside, and when his voice mail clicked on she left him a short message, promising to update him as soon as she found the source of the fire. Quickly, she grabbed a shovel from the barn and threw it in the back of her truck. On second thought she went back inside and picked up a fire extinguisher that she knew in her heart would be useless if the fire had gained as much momentum as the smoke indicated. She placed it next to the shovel while Sonny jumped with excitement.

  “No!” she commanded. “Stay here.”

  Sonny looked dejected, but obeyed. Sadie jumped in the truck and raced to the road, where she turned east and drove toward the smoke.

  She glanced at Buck's house as she sped past. It looked quiet. The black Caddie was nowhere to be seen. She continued on the road until she topped a hill and could see the source of the smoke. It was perilously close to Jelly Hart's house. She ground to a halt in front of his house and jumped out of her truck, amazed at what she saw.

  A huge pile of brush had been placed in the yard next to Jelly's house. Jelly carried a bra
nch and piled it on top. The fire was small considering the great amount of smoke it generated, and it crept around the edges of the grass and lapped at the dry limbs in the brush pile.

  Buck sat in a folding chair under a tree in the front yard holding a water hose in one hand so mud wouldn't splash on his clean jeans, grasping a walking stick in his other hand for balance. Jelly's confused dogs stood behind Buck staring at the fire until they saw Sadie and let out a chorus of howls. Buck sprayed them with water to shush them, and then smiled and waved at Sadie.

  Sadie ignored Buck and the dogs, grabbed the shovel and fire extinguisher from the back of her truck, and ran toward the fire. “Jelly, what in the world are you doing?” she screamed. “You're going to burn down your house!” She began to spray the edges nearest the house, and as soon as the extinguisher was empty, she picked up her shovel and began to throw dirt on the fire.

  Jelly stopped piling tree branches on the fire and stood motionless, watching her, his pink face and bare chest obviously inflamed from his close proximity to the heat.

  “Jelly,” she shouted. “Why are you just standing there? We've got to put out this fire!” She ran over to Buck, and to his amusement she confiscated the water hose and began to douse the fire with water.

  It took almost an hour for Sadie to extinguish the blaze by herself. She splashed her face with water from the hose and then climbed onto the front porch and collapsed on a chair. Jelly and Buck stood in the front yard and stared at her like two pouting youngsters who'd just had their party crashed.

  “What in the world are you two doing? This could have been disastrous,” she finally said, and then turned her attention to Buck. “And, by the way, I've got a bone to pick with you, Mr. Skinner. Do you realize you left the hospital without permission?”

  “Ah, I don't need to be in any hospital. I'm just fine as long as I've got my trusty walking stick handy.”

  Sadie turned her attention to Jelly. “Jelly, what were you thinking? Your whole house could have gone up in flames.”

  Jelly nodded. “I'd rather it burn than let someone else have it,” he said, quietly.