I nodded, and marveled at how quickly a situation can turn for the better when someone’s humble. “I do. And I respect it. But we might need your help.”
“Now?”
“The doc sedated him,” Culliton said. “Could be a couple hours before he’s awake. And then you’ll have to stand in line—no offense, Father.”
“No offense taken.” He looked slightly shaken. “I think it would help if I stay.”
“Why?” Culliton asked.
“His mother’s on her way.”
Culliton gave another sigh. I looked over, questioning.
“Edwina Leming,” the detective said, “doesn’t exactly run our fan club.”
* * *
Edwina Leming turned out to be a tall, frazzled, energetic woman—on a good day.
Today was not a good day.
Soaked with rain, she came through the medical clinic’s automatic doors looking like a feral cat that somebody tried to bathe. And now they would pay for their mistake.
“He was working that day!” she screamed at Culliton. “I told you!”
“Edwina, we have evidence that—”
“Evidence? You don’t have evidence. All you’ve got is a badge and a murder you can’t solve. So you make my kid the target.” She pointed a finger at him. “Hear me, Louie, and hear me good. When I finish exposing you pigs for what you really are, you’ll be lucky to get job picking up litter.”
“I wouldn’t be making threats,” Culliton said.
“It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.”
Culliton’s shotgun-gaze fired on her. Edwina never felt the blow.
“And I got a medical waiver,” she added, “so shove your idea about my pot growing. I’m free and clear.” She glanced around the clinic, her face pinched with annoyance. “Where’s my kid?”
“Ma’am.” A male nurse in yellow scrubs rushed toward us. “You need to keep it down, we have patients who—”
“Any of them shot?”
The nurse looked around, as though his question might be legitimate. “No, none of them were shot but—”
“My kid was shot. So don’t tell me to shut up.”
“I didn’t—”
“Yeah, you did.” Edwina turned back to Culliton. “And I’m gonna sue your department for every last cent.”
“Best of luck,” the detective said.
“I don’t need luck. I got you dopes.”
She stormed off, trailed by the male nurse still asking her to keep it down.
“I can stay,” he said to me. “If you’ve got other things to do.”
Now we’re pals. Amazing what a little success does for a person.
“I do need to follow-up with a few people,” I said.
“Go ahead,” Culliton said. “Just make sure you come by the department before you head back to Seattle. I’ve got something for you.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Small towns turned everyone into gossips.
I had just parked The Ghost outside the Waterhaus, holding open the passenger door for Madame, urging her to hurry up because rain was pouring from the sky, when the hotel’s front door opened and Johann stepped out. He walked through the rain—no coat, no hat, no umbrella—with his arms outstretched. The mournful blue eyes held glistening pools of tears.
“God bless you, Raleigh.”
He wrapped his arms around me.
I closed my eyes.
His scent was grief and turpentine. And relief. It seemed to pour out of him like the rain falling on this drought-stricken land. And I knew when the water that pooled in his eyes broke. His body shook.
“Thank you,” he said into the rain. “Thank you, thank you.”
I wanted to say it, too. But the words hurt too much. I pressed the tip of my tongue against the back of my teeth and swallowed my gratitude. Thanks for having confidence in me. Thanks for believing I could do this job. Thanks for reminding me just how much these awful burdens are part of me.
It matters to this one.
“They sedated him,” I managed to say, breaking from his embrace. “So we won’t know all the details for a while.”
Johann wiped his eyes with the flats of his long hands. Grief had many stages. But stoic grief’s layers ran as deep as the Grand Canyon. Now that this first torrent had broken inside him, I knew he would be very, very tired. Maybe he would even sleep.
“I cannot believe it,” he said.
“That we found him?”
“That it was Mason.”
I waited a moment. “But you suspected Mason.”
“Fritz, he convinced me.” Johann wiped his eyes again. “I knew Mason, he loved Annicka. It was hard to believe he … but now? I wonder, what kind of love was it?”
“Self-love,” I said. “The opposite of true love.”
His tears appeared again. But they didn’t fall. “You are wise, Raleigh.”
Wise in pain, maybe. Wise in grief. But not in relationships. Or making choices that helped my mom get better. That kind of wisdom seemed to elude me.
“Take care of yourself,” I said. “It’s going to be a long process.”
He nodded. “And you will do me another favor?”
“Of course.”
He lowered his face, until the white beard touched his chest. “Please give Jack my thanks, too.”
“Oh, absolutely.” I patted my leg, calling Madame back to the car. Her black fur was slick with rain.
“Raleigh.”
I looked up. Johann’s mournful blue eyes matched the feeling in my heart.
“The cup of joy can refill itself,” he said.
I nodded, to make him feel better. Because I knew the cup of pain refills itself, too.
But there was no point in saying that. This man already knew it.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The early morning rain did nothing to keep shoppers from Preston Baer’s apples. I parked in the almost-full lot, yanked up my hood once more, and apologized to Madame.
Rain was sluicing off the scalloped edge of the red-and-white awning, draining it onto the spot where I’d met the blond girl named Alma. For a moment, I thought I saw her in the back area. But I was wrong. Every girl working Preston Baer’s retail area was a beautiful blond. Like Annicka. I passed through them, and wondered about her final Sunday run on that scenic mountain trail. What had she felt when she saw Mason there—and realized he came to kill her?
I stood in line and waited for one of the young blonds to finish ringing up the customers.
“Is Mr. Baer here?” I asked.
The girl picked up the phone by a register and tapped two numbers. “That CSI lady is here,” she said.
Yep, everybody knew everybody in this town.
“Okay,” she said, and hung up. “Mr. Baer will be right out.”
I wandered over to the merchandise. Apple butters. Apple honeys. Apple tartlets, caramel apple spread for ice cream. And every Baer Naked label screamed: “100 percent pure. We breed only the best!”
I picked up a jar of apple butter and read about the Baer family’s years perfecting its orchards. Cross-pollinating, eliminating imperfections—
“You caught him.”
Preston Baer wheeled to a stop beside me.
I put the apple butter back on the shelf. “How did you hear?”
“Johann. He just called. I think his next phone call is the Vatican. He’ll nominate you for sainthood.”
“That would be a big mistake. Do you have a moment for some follow-up questions?”
“Of course.” He spun ninety degrees. “Let’s go to my office.”
I followed him across the retail area and through the plastic flaps that kept the cold inside the warehouse. On the metal roof, rain drummed its fingers. The chilly air seemed to rise from the concrete. More blond teenagers worked at the loading dock, shipping pallets of boxed apples. But now I saw their faces. Several of them had broad-pan faces with small eyes and flattened noses. I recognized the features.
They came from chromosome mutation of Down’s Syndrome.
Baer turned left, away from the loading dock.
His office was at the back of the building. It was a square room that looked somewhat ordinary, except for the furnishings. His burled wood desk faced crimson leather chairs with ball-and-claw feet.
“Have a seat,” he said.
When I sat down, the chair felt like a throne, like some historic antique rescued from the Lusitania.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
I gestured to the furniture. “I never realized apples were such a lucrative business.”
“Hard work.” He smiled, briefly. “That’s what’s lucrative.” He rolled to the desk and pointed to the framed photos on the wall behind it. “My great-grandparents came here from Hamburg. They had nothing but the clothes on their backs. That’s the work ethic I’m trying to instill in all these kids.”
“Including kids with Down’s Syndrome.”
“Yes.” He hesitated. “I think we have an obligation, to help people who can’t help themselves.” He changed the topic. “You have some questions for me?”
I pulled out one of my photographs and slid it across the desk.
“This shovel was in the back of Mason’s truck. Do you know whether it belongs to you or to him?”
Preston Baer studied the photo.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Very.”
I stepped behind his chair so I could look at the photo with him. But I still didn’t see the problem. “What is it?”
“Annicka should’ve never been murdered. It’s evil.” He shook his head grimly and looked back at the photo. “You believe this shovel was used to kill her?”
“I can’t say, without compromising the case. But I’d like to know whether Mason keeps this shovel in his truck.”
“Or whether he took it from here,” Baer said.
“His mother claims he was working that Sunday morning. I assume she means here. He didn’t have another job?”
“Not that I know of.” Baer set the photo on the antique desk, then backed his chair away, as if needing more perspective. “It’s hard for me to know about the shovel. I’m no longer doing the manual labor around here. So I don’t know whose shovel it is.”
“Do you still believe Mason was working here that Sunday morning?”
“I’ll tell you exactly what I told the police. Sundays were among my most lucrative days. But I had a change of heart, after my accident.” He indicated the wheelchair. “Now we’re closed on Sundays, but the animals still need tending.”
“Yes, but Mason—”
“Mason insisted on working Sundays. These animals require daily care, feeding, water. My wife Susan was doing that work—you met her. You can see how dedicated she is. But with Mason taking over, my wife got a day off. So Mason works here on Sundays.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
“Do you have timecards, schedules, anything that can corroborate that?”
“Sunday’s are …” Baer hesitated, with a sigh. “I pay him for Sundays off the books. Cash. I’d prefer that didn’t come out. I don’t need the IRS after me, too.”
“Did anyone see Mason here that Sunday?”
“Nobody comes in that day. As I said, Mason works alone.”
“You’ve never doubted his story?”
“Not for one second.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Baer said. “Mason Leming’s one of my best workers. There was no way I would believe he killed Annicka. But now …” He reached for the photo, taking in the visual with a deep breath. “Now we know otherwise. Would you like me to ask around, about the shovel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sir?” He smiled, briefly again. “Where are you from?”
“Virginia.”
“Ah, yes. I detected a southern accent. What’s your stock?”
“Pardon?”
“Ancestry. Lineage. German, by any chance?”
“English.” I think. My mom never mentions my birth father. “And some Irish.”
“Well, the Celts have a strong heritage, too.” He tapped the photo. “I’ll make this a priority. You’ll have an answer by day’s end. Will that work?”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
After buying some more Crispins and an apple biscuit for Madame, I headed west. The rain was falling even heavier when Culliton called my cell phone to say he had to leave the hospital.
“You want me to stay?” I asked.
“No, Mason’s not awake. And Edwina’s not leaving. I’ll come back later.”
“Okay.”
“You’re still coming by the department, right?” he asked.
I had forgotten about that, so I swung by the Sheriff’s department before heading toward the mountain pass. County cruisers filled the parking lot. I decided everyone was here to find out how Culliton apprehended Mason Leming. I didn’t want any part of that, but didn’t want to risk losing Culliton’s help.
In the bullpen area, the sheriff stood at the front of the room facing a herd of deputies wearing brown rain jackets. In yellow lettering, the word SHERIFF’S DEPT was printed on the back of their jackets. The sheriff himself—still looking as short and angry as the day I interviewed him—was issuing orders. Nobody noticed my entrance.
“—on all main roads,” he was saying. “Caution. That’s our word of the day. Safety. Don’t take any chances. Is that understood?”
Nods all around.
“And don’t allow anyone through. Especially the Oktoberfest folks. They’re going to demand to leave. Half of ’em will be inebriated, so keep the breathalyzers ready. The situation is likely to get worse.”
I glanced around the room. What situation?
“Don’t hesitate to call dispatch. I’ve got it triple-manned today. Now go out there and save lives.”
The herd of brown uniforms headed for the door. I stepped aside and saw Seiler walked among them. He gave me a nod. He didn’t look so cocky anymore. We both knew he’d be under investigation for shooting Mason, even if it was a valid decision based on Culliton’s orders.
The detective stood at his desk, shoving his big arms into one of the brown rain jackets.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Oh, hey.” He actually smiled. “Good to see you.”
Nothing changes a girl’s social status like collaring a killer. “You had something for me?”
He reached for a stack of binders next to his computer monitor and handed me two. “Everything’s in there. Autopsies, interviews, status updates. Maybe you’ll catch something I missed.”
“Thanks. I’ll look at them tonight.” I glanced back at the force, walking out the door and climbing into the cruisers. “What happened?”
“We’ve got flash flooding, landslides. They just shut down the passes.”
“What?”
“The roads are a mess. You got some place to stay tonight?”
“What?” I couldn’t breathe.
“You’ll probably only have to stay one night. DOT’s trying to get one lane clear by tomorrow.” He zipped the jacket. “But you better hurry. Rooms will go fast.
“Okay.” A sharp claw raked across my heart. “But there’s got to be another road out of here.”
“Not unless you’re Maria von Trapp. The only other way out is to walk over the mountains.”
“But …there must be …?”
“Sorry.” He picked up a brown rain hat from his chair. “But try to enjoy your stay.”
* * *
In the parking lot, I sat inside The Ghost and listened to the rain pound the roof. Madame sat up with anticipation, but laid back down when I didn’t turn the key for several minutes. Resting her black head between her paws, she sighed.
Through the fogging windshield, I watched the rain wash down the brown hillsides. The water carved gullies and spread sediment across the pavement. When soil was this dry, it couldn’t absorb wa
ter.
Madame sighed again.
“I hear you.”
I pulled out my phone, and swallowed my pride.
“Jack?” I said.
“Harmon, where are you?”
“Purgatory.”
“I hear the food sucks.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you get the guy?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Any problems?”
“Plenty.”
“Such as?”
“I’ll tell you later. Right now, both passes are closed.”
“Oh.”
“Yesterday I was late getting back. Remember, the whole chasing the guy from the river to the church?”
“Yes …”
“So I was late. Really late. And if I don’t show up today …”
The rain sounded like it wanted to burst through the roof.
“Harmon,” he said it, slowly, as if words were being pressed through a sieve. “If I could get you back here, I’d fire up the plane right now. But the only planes getting through that weather run on jet fuel. There’s even a snow advisory for the higher elevations.”
“Are you saying there’s no way you—”
“None.”
My throat tightened.
“You collared the guy,” he said. “That’s huge. Think about that.”
“Yes, but we now have a complication. Remember that county deputy, the one who ragged on me about Madame?”
“Animal control.”
“Right,” I said. “We were moving so fast on the church that we didn’t get great backup. He shot the guy.”
“What—fatal?”
“No. But now Mason will hire lawyers.”
“But you did good, Harmon. Really good.”
I looked out the fogged windshield. All I could think about was my mom waiting for Madame, sitting on that single bed with its plastic cover. And no dog showing up.
“You remember how to get to my cabin?” Jack asked.
I nodded.
“Good,” he said, as if he could see my nod. “There’s a key above the back door. Make a fire, settle in the the night.”
I nodded.
“Is the mutt with you?” he asked.
“Why?”
“Because if she’s at Eleanor’s, I’ll take her to your mom.”
The Waves Break Gray (The Raleigh Harmon mysteries Book 6) Page 18