Floyd shot forward and planted clenched fists on the table. “He’s smart. He’s always been smart. He said—” Floyd clamped his mouth shut and his face turned purple.
“You’re going to end up in jail,” she said, “while the man who set this up is going to go free.”
Floyd threw himself back in the chair and stared sullenly.
Always been smart, she thought. He knew the man. A local person?
Holmes leaned comfortably back and propped one ankle on the opposite knee. “I knew your momma. Nice woman. How do you think she’d feel about all this, her son stealing from the neighbors?”
“You leave my momma out of this. Maybe she’d like it just fine, huh? Maybe if she was alive to know, she’d think, Yeah, about time. About time I got some of what I was owed.”
The sheriff slowly shook his head. “What are you owed?”
“We shoulda had a decent place. They shoulda helped. I never got anything as a kid. None of these good neighbors did anything about that. Wasn’t fair.” He darted a glance of malice at her.
Had he killed Daniel because of some twisted idea of what was fair?
“Cattle rustling’s against the law, Floyd,” Holmes said with heavy disappointment.
“Yeah? What has the law ever done for me? Shriveled-up old bitch Helen Wren shot my father. The law do anything to her?”
“Circumstances—”
“Circumstances, shit! Just because she was big hotshot important around here.”
“What did you think of Daniel?” she asked. “How’d you feel about him?”
Floyd crossed his arms, hands in his armpits, and shrugged. The sheriff cleared his throat. She ignored him. “You own a rifle, Floyd?”
“’Course I do.”
“Did you use it to kill Daniel?”
Alarm flooded his face. “I never killed anybody.”
The sheriff gave her one brief shake of his head and said to Floyd, “Well now, somebody’s responsible. If you didn’t do it, you better tell me what you know, so we can sort this all out.”
Floyd cracked his knuckles.
“Serious trouble, Floyd,” Susan said. “We’re talking about murder.”
Floyd glowered. “I don’t have to say nothing.”
Sheriff Holmes worked at him for several minutes, but Floyd refused to answer. Holmes, sighing with heavy regret, called a uniformed deputy to escort him to a cell.
After they’d gone, the sheriff took the pipe from his mouth, tipped his head and looked at her with mild reproach. “Ms. Susan, you’re in too much of an all-fired hurry.”
“Sheriff—”
He held up a hand, palm out. “Now I know you have a personal stake in this, but you ought to consider the individual you’re dealing with and proceed along the most appropriate path.”
“I simply—”
“Floyd is not exceptionally bright, but he’s bright enough to realize a murder charge is real serious. And by throwing that possibility at him, you sent his mind into a shutdown. If you’d kept quiet and let me work around in circles and ease up on it, we’d have gotten more from him.” Holmes raised his eyebrows. “Um?”
A swarm of defensive thoughts buzzed through her mind, but she didn’t say anything.
“Now we’ll let Floyd simmer for a day or so and then I’ll talk with him again. I’ll let you know what I get out of him.”
“Thanks,” she said with as much deference as she could muster.
* * *
THE cold night air sent tired muscles into shuddering spasms and she had to make a conscious effort to lift one leaden foot and then the other, push and cajole her body to the pickup. For a while she slumped over the steering wheel. The adrenaline-fired energy from the phone call, the eerie tramp across fields and the bizarre scene of slaughter had worn off. Driving twenty-five miles through the dark seemed a chore beyond her ability. Lethargy closed over her and all she wanted to do was go to bed. Finally, sluggishly, she turned the ignition and shoved the truck in gear.
As she drove away, a memory surfaced from the bottom of her mind: her father driving through dark night with her beside him. She had been eight, awakened by bad dreams and terrified to go back to sleep. He had taken her to the wharf to watch the fishermen prepare nets and ropes and set out to sea. Why that particular memory? she wondered. If her subconscious was trying to tell her something, she wasn’t getting it. Unless it was saying she was driving around in the dark with this investigation. That she already knew.
She rubbed the heel of her hand against one burning eye and then the other. From the remote cocoon of fatigue, she thought about Floyd Kimmell. Who paid him to slaughter beef? A guy from Kansas City. He was always smart. From Kansas City. City fella. No, Floyd hadn’t said that. Who then? Vic. City fellow. Blond hair.
She stopped at the side of the road and frowned out at the path cut by the headlights. She knew of one man who fit that description. Brenner Niemen. Well, am I getting somewhere at last? She picked up the mike and got the night dispatcher. “I’m headed for Sophie’s. Tell Parkhurst to get out there. And this time don’t be late.” Taking off again, she turned east at the crossroad.
The sky was just taking on a grayish tinge when she pulled up at Sophie’s. Parkhurst had already arrived. A kitchen light was on, but the rest of the house was in darkness. Sophie’s elderly white Chevy sat near the barn, and inside the barn old Buttermilk was making a commotion.
Parkhurst crunched across the gravel toward her. “What are we doing here?” He looked about as tired as she felt.
“Brenner Niemen.” She told him what Floyd had let drop and her conclusion.
He raised a skeptical eyebrow and followed her to the kitchen door. She knocked. No answer. She felt uneasy.
“Don’t start imagining things,” he said. “Sophie could be anywhere.”
“Her car’s here.”
“She probably used a broomstick.”
“Where’s Brenner?”
“Still asleep,” he said. “Nobody’s up this time of day except cops and Sophie.”
“Where’s Brenner’s car?”
“Maybe Sophie’s driving it.”
“A bronze Mercedes?” The thought was farcical. She rotated her shoulders, trying to unkink the knots, then twisted the doorknob. It turned easily. She looked at Parkhurst and he shrugged.
Stepping inside, she squinted in the light. “Sophie?”
Somewhere a grandfather clock ticked ponderously. Three black cats blinked at them from the basket by the stove, untangled themselves, stretched with thorough satisfaction and trotted toward them, nattering about breakfast.
“Cats haven’t been fed.” No signs of breakfast for people either, unless they’d had cherry pie. The pie, with two pieces missing, sat in the center of the table along with two coffee mugs and two dirty plates. That didn’t seem like Sophie; she’d have washed up and put away the pie.
Susan drifted to the hallway and stuck her head in the living room; it was empty and tidy. The clock ticked. Farther along off the hallway was Sophie’s bedroom, bed made, room neat. “Satisfied?” Parkhurst asked.
She paused at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the banister. “Sophie?” The silence had a creepy feeling. Switching on the light, she trudged up the stairs. The cats followed and watched, sitting patiently in doorways while she and Parkhurst glanced into each room. Everything was neat and tidy except for the dirty dishes in the kitchen.
Come on, Susan. Fatigue sozzles the brain, makes the synapses misfire. Just because they’re not here doesn’t mean anything is wrong. She was aware of Buttermilk still clattering in the barn as she slowly plodded down the stairs with cats swirling around her feet. Halfway down, she thought of Sophie’s rifle.
“What?” he asked.
She took the rest of the steps in a quick trot, alarming the cats, who fled. In the hall closet, she searched through the raincoats, rubber boots, hats and odd items of clothing.
The rifle was gone.
&n
bsp; “Sophie might have it,” Parkhurst said, but his voice had sharpened.
“Why?”
“Maybe she went out to shoot varmints.”
“Does Sophie shoot things?” People. Daniel. When had Sophie stopped being a suspect? She couldn’t see Sophie strangling Lucille. Lucille was younger and stronger, but it was possible, if Lucille had been taken by surprise.
“I’ve never known her to,” Parkhurst said.
She frowned, shook her head, wandered back through the kitchen. When Parkhurst opened the door, the cats swooped out. The sky had turned a lighter gray, with a pinkish line across the horizon. Buttermilk screamed and crashed inside the barn.
She stared at Parkhurst, then, with a quick intake of breath, ran to the barn and shoved open the door. Buttermilk, eyes wild, screamed and reared, banged front hooves against the stall.
“What the hell—” he began.
“Stay here.” As she moved slowly toward the horse, she spoke softly. The old mare bared long yellow teeth, snaked out her neck and snapped with a wicked clack. Susan ducked aside. Still murmuring softly, she reached out to unlatch the door, then stood well back.
Buttermilk, snorting and stomping, bumped open the door and came out, eyes rolling with fear. Parkhurst scrambled out of her way. In an ungainly trot, she headed outside.
Susan went into the stall, throat tight with a brassy taste. Thin daylight barely penetrated the deep shadows. Sophie lay below the manger, crumpled inside the long black overcoat, her face parchment white, head resting in a sticky puddle of blood.
“Oh, Sophie,” Susan whispered and knelt beside the old woman.
“Shit!” Parkhurst said, and took off running.
CHAPTER TWENTY
SHE yanked off a glove and laid her fingertips against the old woman’s throat, just under the point of the jaw. Oh Lord, oh Lord, she couldn’t find a pulse; her hands were so cold she couldn’t feel anything. God dammit, Sophie, don’t you dare be dead!
She blew on her fingertips, massaged them and flexed her hands, then tried again. Nothing. Shit! Wait, no wait. Oh God, please. Yes, yes. A faint thread fluttered beneath her fingers.
Letting out a long sigh, she scrambled to her feet and sprinted for the barn door. Parkhurst handed her a quilt. “Ambulance on the way,” he said. The rosy flush of dawn poured light through the doorway, and as she knelt in the soiled straw, she saw evidence the horse, panicked by the smell of blood, had trampled on the old woman. How much damage had those big hooves caused? Was anything left unbroken inside that black overcoat?
“Hold on,” she muttered, helping Parkhurst spread the quilt over Sophie. “They’re coming.” Gently, she tucked the quilt around Sophie’s shoulders.
What had happened? Judging from the amount of blood under her head, Sophie obviously had a severe head injury. Had she fallen or been knocked down by the horse and struck her head? Or was it only meant to look that way?
The cats had come to watch and sat in a row in the doorway, the sun behind them creating cartoon-cat shadows.
Sophie moaned; her eyelids fluttered and she moved her hands.
“Just lie still, it’ll be all right. Lie still.”
Sophie opened her eyes and stared at Susan with sharp awareness. “What time is it?” she said clearly.
“A little after seven.”
“Headache.” Sophie fought at the quilt, trying to free her hands. “Have to get up. Feed the cats. Have to—”
“Don’t try to move.” Susan took the agitated hands from under the quilt to still them. “You’ve had an accident.” Where the hell was the ambulance?
“Accident.” Sophie’s voice grew faint. “No … not…”
“What happened?”
“Pain … pain … hit…”
“Someone hit you?”
Sophie’s eyes closed. “Brenner. I don’t— Brenner?”
“Brenner hit you?” Susan asked urgently, wondering if she should be asking anything at all.
“Hurt…”
“Who hurt you, Sophie?”
The old woman’s eyelids flickered open, eyes unfocused and unseeing, then closed and she moved her head, moaned. “Old sins,” she mumbled, “old sins,” and lapsed again into unconsciousness.
Susan looked up at Parkhurst as she felt for a pulse, dreadfully afraid the thin flutter was gone. Hearing the wail of a siren, she muttered, “About time.” Parkhurst hurried out and she followed more slowly.
The ambulance roared toward the barn and a young paramedic leaped out before it fishtailed to a stop with a scatter of gravel. He raced to the rear and had the stretcher ready by the time the driver flung open his door and jumped down. Parkhurst pointed and they sped past her to the stall.
They ran knowledgeable hands over the old woman, lifted her carefully and strapped her on the stretcher.
“Is she still alive?” Susan asked as they rolled Sophie from the barn.
“So far.” They slid the stretcher into the ambulance, and one paramedic climbed in beside it.
“Will she make it?” Susan asked the driver.
“I wouldn’t give a lot for her chances,” he said and tore off in a spatter of gravel.
No, Susan thought.
“I reported in to George,” Parkhurst said.
She was a little surprised and felt a little guilty that George was already at his desk when it wasn’t yet seven o’clock; dear George, no doubt doing work that should be hers.
“He’ll put out a pickup on Brenner Niemen, and I told him to tell Osey to get his butt out here.”
* * *
SHE headed for home, driving directly into the morning sun; it gave very little warmth, but its glare was blinding. She nudged the heater up another notch. Why had Brenner taken the rifle? For protection? Or to kill somebody else? If that’s what he wanted, he’d had plenty of time. The phone call—assuming Sophie made it—came about one-twenty last night and—again assuming Brenner had hit her—he’d had up to six and a half hours. He could be anywhere by now.
Why had he attacked Sophie? He hadn’t killed her, only dumped her in the stall to die or let the horse finish her off. Meant to look like an accident? The other two murders had been quick kills; why had he bungled on Sophie? Couldn’t bring himself to off his old auntie? It wasn’t a sure thing Buttermilk would finish the job, but if they had been a little slower in finding the old woman, Sophie would have been dead.
The air in the enclosed cab had grown toasty warm and thick, with a noxious stench, she suddenly realized, and sniffed cautiously. Strong enough to make her eyes water. Odors of ripe urine and horse manure saturated her clothes. Hurriedly, she rolled down the window and treated her lungs to a gulp of cold air.
At home, she left the pickup in the driveway, went straight upstairs to the bathroom and peeled off her rank clothing, then got under the shower and stood for a long time, luxuriating in the hot water beating down on her. She soaped her body, let the suds rinse off and shampooed her hair.
Leaving the bathroom in clouds of steam, she padded into the bedroom, took a pair of white wool pants from the closet and stepped into them. I’ve lost weight, she thought, glancing at her reflection in the mirror; the pants hung from her hipbones, and her face seemed different, thinner and harder, a little gaunt, with cheekbones more pronounced. I look older. She grimaced at her image, then put on a pale-blue silk blouse, blow-dried her hair and covered over the ravages of too little sleep with some makeup.
Her eyes were gritty and she was aware of fatigue, but she felt wired. Finally, finally, she was making progress. “You’re getting there, kid. I knew you could do it,” she told her reflection, then scooped up her raunchy clothes and went down to the kitchen. Under the sink, she found a plastic bag, bundled in the clothes and set it outside the door. Later she’d drop it at the cleaners.
The kitchen could use some attention: dirty dishes piled haphazardly in the sink, ashtrays heaped with cigarette butts, books and newspapers scattered over the table, dust balls o
n the floor and spiderwebs on the ceiling. Her mother, if she knew, would be silently disappointed.
She ran water in the teakettle, set it on the stove, then rinsed a cup and spooned in instant coffee. Waiting for the water to boil, she stood at the sink looking out the window. A pair of sparrows flew to the bird feeder, perched a moment, then flew away. She never had filled it. Sorry guys, I won’t be around to feed you, I’m going home. Soon. Find Brenner, then thumb my nose at Mayor Bakover and take off.
The teakettle shrieked and she dumped water over the coffee crystals, stirred and carried the cup to the table. She munched on a piece of toast.
Brenner, with his housing development in serious financial difficulty, needed money—according to Lucille’s friend Doug McClay, a lot of money. Susan was convinced Brenner had arranged for the toxic-waste dumping and the slaughter of beef. He took money from whoever needed to get rid of waste, gave some to Vic and kept the rest, paid Floyd for freshly killed beef and sold the stuff for a profit. How much would that bring?
Enough to be worthwhile, or he wouldn’t have taken the risk. He’d picked his accomplices well: Vic, vicious and amoral, only too pleased to receive money for a useless piece of his land; Floyd, with his skewed sense of being owed, overjoyed at getting back at people who had done him wrong.
Brenner. Lucille believed Brenner had killed Daniel. She had been right. Somehow, Daniel must have found out about Brenner’s illegal activities.
Shaking a cigarette from the pack, she stuck it in her mouth and flicked the lighter, then stared at the tiny flame as a thought struggled through the clutter in her mind. She’d met Brenner in the small parking lot behind an office building. Sophie had snagged somebody’s cat and he had released it. Ah, Susan thought, finally realizing what had made her uneasy; such a small thing and of no real importance. After Sophie stomped off, he had walked Susan across the street directly to the pickup; if he hadn’t been here for nine years, as he claimed, how had he known what she was driving? He could have been following her. No. She had followed him.
She smoked the cigarette, drank the coffee and added the cup to the pile in the sink.
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