“Yes, Osey, I can handle her.”
“Take the bay,” he pleaded. “He’s a nice easy—”
“Osey, for heaven’s sake, if you want to do something, adjust the stirrups.”
He did so, slowly, dragging the job out, and the mare shifted impatiently. When he finally stepped back, Susan gave the horse her head and the mare took off with a leap that nearly unseated her. Probably serve her right. It had been years since she’d done any riding, and getting dumped on her rear would be mighty embarrassing after her great show of authority.
She brought the mare to a controlled canter and, looking back, saw Osey, white-faced, streaking after her on the bay. She waved at him and smiled with reassurance, then she simply rode. Despite the clunkiness of the saddle, she enjoyed the feel of the animal beneath her and the wind whipping in her face. She wanted to ride forever, cantering across the shallow hills on the responsive, surefooted mare with those powerful muscles bunching and stretching.
Concern for the animal made her bring the mare to a trot and then a walk. There might be patches of ice or small holes beneath the snow, and she could hardly hope to spot anything like a grave while skimming across the landscape.
Osey trotted up beside her and grinned. “I guess you’re all right.”
She smiled and patted the horse’s neck.
“If you want to go that way,” he swung his arm to the south, “I’ll do the other way.”
Nodding, she reined the mare off at an angle and realized how difficult this would be, only a matter of luck if they found anything. If Emma Lou was killed over two months ago, the ground would have had time to settle and there wouldn’t necessarily be any noticeable evidence of digging. The snow made it even harder: Any spot that might look suspicious would be covered.
She scanned the horizon. In the distance was a clump of trees and she made her way more or less in that direction. When she came to what looked like a track, she dismounted and brushed away snow. She found tire marks, remounted and followed the track. After a mile or so, either she lost the track or it petered out. Angling back and forth, she tried to pick it up again and came to a fence with the barbed wire sagging and hanging loose. She turned the mare and rode along the fence.
They neared a ravine and the mare gathered muscles to jump, but Susan held her back and walked her along the edge. It was eight feet deep and three across at the widest section, with nothing inside but snow. At one point, she saw Parkhurst’s car several miles away and after a time, she reached a gravel road and saw his tire tracks.
Crossing the road, she trotted the mare up to a stock tank with a huge windmill, tank half full of scummy, dirty water, frozen in the center. The windmill wasn’t moving and obviously hadn’t worked for some time. Above the trees in the distance, a hawk circled in the gray sky and she wondered what kind it was. Daniel would have known. Riding gradually uphill, she saw a small black-and-tan dog trotting toward the trees. Cottonwood trees?
Purposefully, the dog went about his business, stopping now and then to investigate an interesting scent. She followed and he stopped once to look at her and wave his tail, then disappeared over a rise. When she reached the top, she headed for the trees and then made her way through them. She saw the dog again, busily pawing at the ground at the base of a tree.
The mare stopped, pointed her ears, snorted and pranced sideways. Susan urged her forward. The mare balked. Susan nudged her. The mare took dainty, mincing steps and tossed her head.
“Where did you learn to ride?”
Startled, Susan lost a stirrup and almost lost the mare, who reared and wheeled. She tightened the left rein, forcing the animal into a tighter and tighter circle, finally getting her under control.
“Sophie, what are you doing here?”
“Sorry. Stupid thing, frighten a horse. Know better.”
“How did you get out here?”
“I can still get most places I want to be.” Sophie had on the long black overcoat and a black scarf around her head. No wonder the mare had spooked; she was an eerie figure standing by the tree.
“Found anything yet?” the old woman asked.
“How did you know we were looking?”
Sophie snorted. “Won’t work with me, child. I’m nosy and don’t intend to change or apologize. What are you looking for?”
The mare, dancing and fidgeting, was difficult to restrain, and Susan fought with her.
“Emma Lou?” The old woman smiled slyly. “Trash. Do better to look for her in Kansas City. If you’re expecting to find something, you’re looking in the wrong place.”
“What?”
“Over there.” Sophie pointed. “Try in that hollow.”
The mare tossed her head and made an unexpected sideways jump. When Susan again got her under control, the old woman had gone.
“Sophie!”
Susan nudged the mare, coaxed her forward. She planted her feet, but Susan convinced her they were going on. A creek gurgled along at the bottom of the slope, and across it was a barbed wire fence with wire missing in one section. Sophie had disappeared; she could have slipped behind any of the trees.
“Dammit,” Susan muttered. Turning the mare, she allowed a canter toward the area Sophie had indicated and came to another track so deeply rutted beneath the snow, it had obviously been used by a heavy vehicle. She followed it to a point where the ground sloped steeply down to an irregular, depressed area. A few stunted trees grew around the rim.
Dismounting, she tethered the mare to a tree and clambered down the slope. Tumbled into the floor of the hollow were about twenty metal drums partially covered with dirt and snow. She brushed at the snow and examined a drum. It had no marks of any kind to identify it.
“Ma’am?”
She looked up. Osey dismounted, dropped the reins and slithered down. He tossed straw-colored hair from his eyes. “I saw the mare, wondered if you fell off. What have you found?”
“Not what we were looking for.”
Osey ambled around looking at the drums, now and then thumping them. “What’s in ’em?”
“I can make a pretty good guess. Can you find Parkhurst?”
Osey nodded, trudged up the slope, jumped on the bay and trotted off. She stared at the drums. Toxic waste; she hadn’t a doubt. Was this why Daniel had been killed? She shivered. The temperature was dropping, the sky was turning a darker gray, and the wind was no longer soft as daylight began to fade.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WHEN Sheriff Holmes took off to sort out a fatal accident involving a drunk driver, Susan went to his office window and looked out at a cold gray sky, the color of frozen pond water. Late yesterday afternoon, Vic Pollock had been released on bail. Parkhurst and a deputy were bringing him in for more questioning. The street outside was empty with Sunday morning quiet, and somewhere bells rang, summoning all the good folks to church.
And then there was Vic, she thought, turning from the window as the door opened and a deputy herded Vic Pollock into the office. Parkhurst was right on his heels. The deputy closed the door and leaned against it. Vic leveled on her a gaze of rancorous resentment. She wrapped herself in a cloak of cool poise, crossed to the sheriff’s desk and stood behind it.
“Sit,” Parkhurst said to Vic, and nodded at the chair in front of the desk. She shot Parkhurst a cautionary look, but he seemed to have himself well in control; after Vic lowered his bulk to the chair, he went to the window, propped his rear on the ledge and folded his arms. Silhouetted against the gray sky, he looked like a short-tempered guardian angel.
The dissonance between them was, to say the least, intensified after his attack on Vic. She was angry and he was white-lipped and defensive.
Vic leaned his broad shoulders against the chair back and it creaked in protest. What was going on in his head, other than resentment at being here, she had no idea. He gave no indication he’d ever even seen her before and certainly no evidence of guilt or contrition at his assault on her.
He’d s
pruced himself up some in cleaner khaki pants and a red plaid shirt, and his greasy blue-black hair was slicked back, but his fingernails were rimmed with dirt and he still gave off a faint odor of the predator. She’d brought in a grizzly bear and felt there ought to be bars between them.
“Where’s your wife, Mr. Pollock?” she asked as she sat down.
“Don’t rightly know.”
“You’ve been telling people she’s visiting relatives. Why’d you say that?”
“None of their business.” He stared right through her as something stirred deep down in the wilderness of his mind. “Emma Lou’ll be back.” Anticipation flickered across his fleshy face.
Plans for Emma Lou when she returned, Susan thought, and doubts nibbled at her theory he’d killed his wife. If Vic was relishing cruel punishments, Emma Lou couldn’t be dead. If she wasn’t dead, where was she? Sophie’d said better to look in Kansas City. Did Sophie know something or was she just talking?
“Toxic waste, Mr. Pollock. Who’s paying you for the privilege of leaving it on your land?”
“I purely didn’t know what was in them drums.”
Parkhurst made a sound of disgust. “Some slime just sidled up with a fistful of money and said, ‘You take it and I’ll leave my poison right here in the middle of all this fertile farmland.’”
Vic scooted his chair a little to one side and turned his head to look at Parkhurst. “Weren’t like that. City fella come to talk, needed space, didn’t matter out in the open. Said nothin’ about no poison.”
“You didn’t ask,” she said, “what was in the drums?”
Vic swung his head back to her and she was reminded of the slow menace of Guthman’s bull. “What for? God answered my prayers. Nothin’ grow in that holler anyway and it’s been hard times. Always repairs and the wheat crop failed and then them taxes. My great-great-granddaddy started up that farm. Weren’t gonna lose it for them taxes.”
That had a little ring of truth behind it, and she wondered whether a jury would give it any credence. “Who approached you?”
“I only saw him the once.”
“How were you paid?”
“Came in the mail, regular.”
“A check?”
“Cash.”
“What was his name?”
Vic furrowed his brow, signifying deep thought. “Don’t believe I can remember.”
“Uh-huh.” She knew he was lying. He knew she knew, and he didn’t care. “What did he look like?”
“Like everybody else. Ordinary.”
“Tall? Short?”
“Uh—” Again, Vic wrinkled his forehead. “Medium, I’d say.”
“Hair color? Age?”
“Can’t think right offhand. Maybe light-colored hair, maybe some younger than me.”
He was vague and unhelpful because that was his nature, but he was also annoyed that the easy flow of money was cut off. What passed for intelligence was a sort of animal instinct for survival; make it pay and he wouldn’t hesitate to sell out his supplier.
“Where does this toxic waste come from?” she asked.
“Don’t know.”
Another lie? She couldn’t tell. It was possible whoever made the arrangements carefully kept that information to himself. “Lucille Guthman found out what you were doing.”
“Don’t see how. Didn’t anybody know.”
“That why you killed her, Vic?” Parkhurst said. “She found out, would have spread the word and spoiled your game. Same reason you killed Dan.”
Vic swung his head to look at Parkhurst and grinned, crinkling up the flesh around his small, cold eyes. “Can’t pin it on me. Weren’t anywhere near Kansas City.”
Parkhurst, without moving a muscle, managed to convey contempt and utter disbelief.
“Pried into a lot of things, Lucille did,” Vic said. “Got into something she shouldn’t of. Just like Dan.”
Susan leaned back in her chair, not allowing any of her rage to show, and let Parkhurst take over the questioning. He asked the same questions she had, only rapid-fire and accusatory, with sneered disbelief when Vic gave the same answers.
Vic didn’t show any of the signs of guilt most people display: no tension in his posture, no clenching of jaw muscles, no breaking of eye contact or tightening of knuckles. His large hands with thick black hair on the backs lay relaxed on his bulging thighs. The only emotion she could read was fuming irritation that his lucrative sideline was interrupted by interfering busybodies. He stuck to ignorance and gave away nothing more than that the man who paid him was maybe blond and maybe younger.
“Answered all these questions more’n twice over,” Vic said. “You got nothin’ on me.”
Unfortunately, that was true—nothing concrete to tie him to the murders; none of his three rifles had been the weapon used to kill Daniel—but Vic was at the center of much furor. The attack on her was the least of it and probably canceled out by Parkhurst’s assault on him, but environmentalists were sharpening their pencils to make lists of charges to bring against him, and neighboring landowners were rushing out to consult attorneys.
“You’re free to go, Mr. Pollock.” She stood up behind the desk. “That’ll be all for now.”
His lifted his head slowly to stare at her, and for a brief instant his eyes were unguarded. Primitive fear crawled along her scalp and she felt hair stir on her arms. As clearly as though he spoke aloud, she heard his dispassionate thoughts. Come a time when you’re all alone somewheres. Look over your shoulder. I’ll be there. Then it was gone, that glimpse into his mind, like a shutter clicking shut, and he rose, nodded to her, grinned at Parkhurst and shambled out. The deputy followed. She backed to lean against the wall.
“Sweet fellow, isn’t he?” Parkhurst said.
“The stuff of which nightmares are made.” She folded her arms and rubbed the upper parts. “You think he killed Daniel and Lucille?”
Parkhurst took a long breath, pushed himself off the window ledge, paced to the chair Vic had just vacated and dropped into it. “Why would he kill Dan?”
“Daniel might have known about the toxic waste. You said he wanted to talk to you about something, maybe that was it.”
“How’d Dan find out?”
“Lucille could have told him.”
Parkhurst slouched down, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Speculation. We need a few hard facts. There’s somebody else who must have been just as concerned as Vic to keep this all quiet.”
“Yes. The city man with blond hair who set it up. You saying he might have killed Daniel and Lucille?”
“I’m saying we let the sheriff keep bringing Vic in and chipping away. If a murder charge looms, I’ll bet he suddenly starts to remember a lot more about that man.”
She nodded. And probably a lot more about where his wife is. If Emma Lou’s disappearance wasn’t connected with the murders, she wanted it out of the way. She glanced at her watch. Lucille’s funeral was at three.
* * *
A FEW minutes before three o’clock, Susan slid into a pew far in the back of the crowded church. She wondered how many of these people were here out of liking for Lucille and how many out of the respect due Otto Guthman.
A bronze casket with a spray of pink roses sat just below the altar rail and masses of flowers were bunched on either side. The music pounded in her head and she felt dizzy with a sick sense of unreality. The casket blurred, blended and superimposed itself on the image of Daniel’s. Digging fingernails into her palm, she took a slow breath and concentrated on the people in the pews in front of her.
Ella Guthman, hunched and shriveled inside a black dress, seemed propped up by Otto, face dark with anger, on one side and Jack, face waxy pale, on the other. Doug McClay, seated on the aisle midway down, looked remote with inward concentration. Cold light bled through the stained-glass windows and dusted his blond hair with a greenish tinge. What was he thinking of? Lucille? Or was he focusing hard on anything else just to get throu
gh this?
Brenner Niemen and Sophie sat just behind him, Brenner with his arms crossed and his head bent, Sophie darting glances back and forth over the congregation with avid curiosity, like a promoter counting the house. Floyd Kimmell’s reddish-brown hair made him easy to spot, and his beefy shoulders strained the fabric of his reddish-brown suit coat. I sure wish I knew what it is you think you’re getting away with. Maybe nothing to do with the murders. She hadn’t found any evidence that pointed to him, but maybe she hadn’t looked hard enough.
Osey Pickett was with his parents and the four older brothers who looked so alike she couldn’t tell one from another. Hazel, clutching a handkerchief, fixed a sorrowful gaze on the Guthmans. George Halpern and his plump, comfortable wife were just in front of Susan, and Parkhurst sat beside them. Two rows ahead Helen looked composed and attentive; next to her Henry Royce, the editor, looked grim.
When Susan came out of the church after the service, it was bitterly cold and beginning to sleet. In her little brown Fiat she followed the procession of black cars behind police escort to the cemetery and stood at the edge of the group around the open grave. Rows of weathered stones with withered, faded flowers stretched around them. A cold wind sneaked through the skeletal trees etched against the slate sky. Icy pellets stung her face.
Ella leaned heavily on Jack, her face twisted with pain. Otto stood tall, with his head high and his brows drawn together in a look of thundering rage. Doug McClay stared intently at the toes of his shoes, possibly to shut out the minister’s words. Sleet hissed an accompaniment in the background like a thin keening dirge.
“I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”
When Reverend Mullet finished, people began moving around, approaching the Guthmans with offers of sympathy and speaking to each other. Susan threaded her way through the group, intent on catching Sophie, but several people stopped her to ask what she was doing about these awful murders and when would there be an arrest. Soon, she told them. “I’m following every lead and the investigation is progressing.” She kept moving, not giving anyone an opportunity to ask where it was progressing to. George’s wife gave her an understanding smile and a friendly pat on the arm as she passed.
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