On a Quiet Street

by J. L. Doucette

  “This is terrible news.” My first thought was what it would do to Max. He would be devastated.

  I hadn’t seen Antelope since the day we drove to Ocean Lake, the place where my patient Kimi Benally had died. After that long and strangely intimate day we’d shared, I’d thought I might hear from him. It had been mid-January then, smack in the middle of a cold, hard winter—the definition of lonely. But I hadn’t heard from him again until now.

  I’d wondered more than a few times what I would have done if he had reached out. He’s a handsome guy with a mysterious soul. I could do worse than Detective Beau Antelope, if I wanted romance—which I didn’t.

  When we’d worked Kimi’s case together, he’d made it clear he wanted something beyond a professional relationship. When I shut things down—pretty hard—he didn’t try again. I respected him more for respecting what I wanted.

  Six months is a long time, however, and my defenses were in place again.

  “You think the contractor did it?”

  “He’s number one on the list right now.”

  “Any other thoughts?”

  “She was too young to die, for starters. So what do you say, Doc, are you up for getting your hands dirty with another murdered girl? It’s a criminal case, so outside the scope of your current contract. I’m sure there’s enough in the budget to make it worth your while.”

  “You make it hard to resist.”

  “This stuff doesn’t bother you? I mean, it gets kind of gritty when you get close to murder—you found that out last time. A lot of the shrinks around here won’t touch a murder case, or any violent case, for that matter.”

  When you discover the bodies of your husband and his mistress, shot and killed in the office you shared, your perspective changes, I thought grimly. “You know my story,” I said. “I’m hard to shock.”

  “The sun’s coming out over here in Green River. I need to get back to work, but I’ll be back in Rock Springs in time for appetizers. Want to meet me at Bitter Creek Brewing?”

  “What time?”

  “Shoot for five.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He hung up without saying good-bye.

  I met Beau Antelope a few months after moving to Wyoming. We both have reasons to be cautious about the people we let into our lives. He admitted he ran a background check on me, the way he does with all potential friends, after our initial meeting. A few things came up that caused him to think twice about me—the Grand Jury Hearing for my husband’s murder, for one. They determined then that they did not have enough evidence to charge me for the crime, but still . . .

  “I meet all kinds in my work. I can’t be too careful,” he said.

  For me, a simple background check didn’t work. The kind of treachery I feared wouldn’t show up on an arrest record. Law-abiding citizens who harbor villainous hearts were the ones who terrified me. Unfortunately, there was no way to know who they were until you got close enough to feel the stab wounds. Safety came from being alone.

  CHAPTER 6

  Her red eyes and a pink nose made him think of spring bunnies on the reservation. Kelly Ryan came to the door in a blue silk robe with a pack of Newport 100s tucked in her cleavage. Her pretty face was swollen from crying, but she tried for a brave smile.

  “Come in. Fern told me. I can’t believe it. Who’d want to hurt Stacey?” She lit a cigarette and fanned the smoke away.

  “The Sheriff’s Department will make every effort to find out,” Antelope said.

  “Excuse the mess. I’m cleaning up from breakfast.”

  The first floor was open plan and had a wall of windows at the back. A bowl and spoon, a box of Cheerios, and a banana skin at one end of a long kitchen island were the only signs of life in the spotless kitchen. Kelly Ryan felt the need to apologize when things were less than perfect, a trait Antelope found annoying.

  The same vintage as all the other 1950s post-war cottages and bungalows in the neighborhood, the renovated home looked new. The white walls, charcoal carpets, teak cabinets, pink granite countertops, and stainless steel appliances in the kitchen transformed it into a showplace.

  She smoked the way his mother did—head thrown back, eyes closed, deep breaths—drama queen moves, a mix of sacred and pornographic that turned him on. He gave himself a mental slap on the head and remembered why he was standing in Kelly Ryan’s kitchen.

  “Tell me about Stacey.”

  She leaned and opened a window to fan the smoke outside and he caught a glimpse of the small breasts inside her robe. She saw him look and took her time before adjusting it.

  “I need ice cream. Sorry, I eat when I’m stressed. Classic chick move, right? You like Cherry Garcia? Albertson’s started carrying it. Care to join me?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Oh, right, I bet they won’t let you. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

  “I have a few questions. I won’t take up much of your time.”

  “I’m in no hurry,” she said, opening the freezer door. She kept talking as she rummaged for the ice cream. “My parents took my son on vacation, an RV trip down to Utah. They’ll be gone for two weeks. They bust their butts all year at Ryan’s Southwest Dry Cleaning—Green River’s Best for Your Best, that’s their slogan. They handle all the dry cleaning for the Sheriff’s Department.” She shut the freezer door, Cherry Garcia in hand. “I’m sorry, I’m a little scattered with everything. You’re not here to talk about dry cleaning. I’ll shut up and you can ask your questions.”

  She ate ice cream straight from the carton, which she held cradled in her arm like a baby. Resting there it made a kind of shelf for the sculpture of her breasts. His mind came back to sex again. He made a mental note to watch himself around Kelly Ryan.

  “When did you see her last?”

  “About a month ago, I think. I wanted to stop by and see the progress on the house, but at the last minute she asked if she could come here instead. She said she needed to step out of her life for a little bit. She came over and then we ended up taking a drive out to Little America, we love the pie there.”

  “How did she seem to you?”

  Kelly savored a mouthful of cherries and went someplace in her head. Out in the garden, the cheerful sound of birds singing brought her attention back. She shook her head. The long spoon dangled from her fingers and dropped into the empty carton. “Something was off.” She ran the spoon around the bottom of the carton and caught the last bits of fruit and melted cream, then dropped everything into the sink before taking the final bite. She lit up again and executed the same slow, soulful drag, drawing out the pleasure and the poison. Since he’d stepped into the house, she’d had something in her mouth.

  “I’m restless, let’s sit on the deck,” she said.

  The wooden steps felt damp from the noon cloudburst. Her bare feet, toenails bright as poppies, brushed the top of the pale, wet grass.

  “Feels good,” she said.

  He relaxed beside her, enjoyed a moment of contentment in the sun before his left brain booted up an image of Stacey dead in her kitchen.

  Kelly finished her cigarette and lit another one from the stub.

  “I know I’m hopeless. I want to quit before it ruins my skin. Not today, though. Today is not the day to give up my number one coping mechanism. I only have one other way to deal, and it’s not ice cream. Sorry, TMI. You want one?” She offered him the pack.

  “I’ll pass.”

  “No ice cream, no smokes. No vices for the detective?”

  “None I’ll admit to.”

  “Touché.”

  Antelope refocused. “What made you think Stacey was off that night?”

  “I don’t know the right way to describe it. Wound a little too tight. Somebody else, you wouldn’t notice it, but Stacey was usually so happy and sweet . . .”

  “How long have you been friends?”

  “Fern didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “They told y
ou about Max’s accident?”

  “Mrs. Hart mentioned an accident, a head injury.”

  “That’s an understatement. He almost died, in a coma for six months with serious brain damage, and when he woke up he couldn’t remember a thing, not the accident or anything before it. Max will never be okay.”

  “You knew him before. How is he different?”

  “My whole life, he was best friends with my brother, Tim. Max was a quiet little nerd back then. Well, he still sort of is, sometimes, but also he can be a hothead. The accident changed him. They were together that day. They fell eighty feet off a rock down in Flaming Gorge. Tim died.”

  “I’m sorry,” Antelope said.

  Kelly acknowledged his words with a quick nod. “It was supposed to be a special graduation trip for the three of them . . .” She shrugged. “What happened to our brothers brought me and Stacey together. We ran with different crowds in high school. Then these freaking tragedies landed on us and we had something in common, we related. We handled it different, though. Stacey got out as fast as she could, but me, I’ll be stuck here forever. The tragedy broke down the walls and we each found a kindred spirit. I’m going to miss her.”

  “What keeps you here?”

  “You know what glue does? It holds things together. My parents, my family, my son’s the glue. His birth gave them a reason to go on. I can’t take him away from them.”

  She reached for another cigarette, changed her mind, and stuffed it and the lighter into the crumpled pack. She held it out to Antelope. “Here. Hold these for me. I’m going to be sick if I smoke another one.”

  In one magic-trick motion, she twisted her hair in a coil and fixed it in place with a strand of yellow grass, transforming herself into a geisha.

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Not about the wedding—her usual topic—or the house. She was on edge. I should have called her again. I suck as a friend.”

  “You didn’t see this coming.”

  “I’m about done with things I don’t see coming, asteroids smashing my life to pieces while I sleep.” She reached for the cigarettes cupped in Antelope’s left hand, fingers cold as ice. “Give me those before I tear my hair out.”

  The tip of one of her manicured nails pressed hard enough to puncture skin; it left a tiny half-moon in his flesh. Her touch set off fireworks in the air between them. He surrendered the pack.

  “They say the earlier you start smoking, the harder it is to quit.” She tapped a cigarette into her hand and lit up. “I started at twelve when I stole my first one from my brother. After, I blackmailed him for more. I threatened to tell our parents if he didn’t share with me. Being an altar boy, he had a reputation to protect.”

  “My gut tells me you know something that might help me do my job. Your friend was murdered today. Murder motivates me. Tell me what you and Stacey talked about.”

  “I don’t think it had anything to do with her getting killed.”

  “You lost me.”

  “Hold on. I’m getting there.” She inhaled and held the smoke in for a long time, like it was pure oxygen. “She suspected Connor was cheating. Someone saw him go into a motel with another guy in Salt Lake City.”

  She fanned her face with the cigarette pack and cool air brushed Antelope’s cheek.

  The sun beat down with a full head of steam; it had to be 90 degrees and there wasn’t a shade tree in the yard. Overhead, a jet out of Salt Lake streaked contrails across the sky.

  “Who saw him?”

  “She didn’t say—like it was some kind of confidential informant. I told her to put a tracker on his phone if she wanted really wanted to know.”

  “Sounds like she didn’t trust what this person said. What would she have done if she’d caught him cheating?”

  “What would you do? Stacey would’ve called off the wedding.” For a long time, Kelly sat quiet beside him. Then she looked at her watch and turned her head away. One tear dropped onto her cheek and she swiped it away. “Promise me it didn’t get her killed.”

  He made a lot of promises in his work he never intended to keep, and still others he found reasons to break—to move cases to a solve, to lock up folks who shouldn’t be free—always with the satisfaction of severing the rattler’s head before a strike. He slept well with those broken promises. But in his gut, he knew it would be different if he broke a promise to Kelly Ryan.

  “If it means anything, I think you did the right thing trying to help her.”

  She stood up and tossed the pack of cigarettes overhand into the rain-soaked grass.

  “Another thing I’m going to have to live with. Fuck it.” She turned and went into the house.

  As Antelope followed her inside, he remembered there was something he’d meant to ask her. “You said three of them went down to Flaming Gorge. Who else went?”

  “Connor. The three of them were inseparable; he and Max still are.”

  “Thanks for your time. You’ve been a big help.”

  He was at the door when she said, “Wait . . .”

  “What?”

  “Maybe it’s not important.”

  If he’d learned anything in his years investigating crimes, most people underestimated the significance of their observations. Often the smallest piece of the puzzle held the solution.

  “You never know,” he said, “better safe than sorry.”

  “Fern said Stacey was strangled.”

  “We don’t have an official cause of death yet. The Medical Examiner will let us know.”

  “Stacey and Connor weren’t as straight-edge as everyone thinks. He choked her during sex. She’d almost pass out, but her orgasms were super intense. Don’t let him know I told you. He might kill me.”

  The skies opened up again on the way back to Rock Springs and the sheets of rain slowed traffic. Outside the Green River Tunnels, an eighteen-wheeler hit a flooded area and jackknifed across both lanes. Two hours passed before the rig got turned around and the road reopened.

  Heavy rain continued to fall. Thick ropes of gray water coursed down the windshield. The wipers were no match for the force of the weather. Most of the way back, Antelope drove with his head out the window, raindrops hitting his face like nails. The world wept for Stacey Hart, who would not walk its surface again.

  At the city limits a clear, violet twilight broke through the storm clouds. At the first Rock Springs exit, Antelope got off the highway and turned right down Dewar Drive toward Broadway. Time to meet Pepper Hunt.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Bitter Creek Brewing Company was located in a renovated four-story brick building. When I arrived, Antelope was at a table in the far corner, staring out the window, lost in thought. When working a case, Antelope, a cerebral type who valued both logic and intuition, went into his own world. In that way he was different from most detectives, who tend to focus on the physical world of evidence and clues.

  He smiled and stood up when I got to the table.

  “Good to see you, it’s been too long,” I said.

  “I ordered a bottle of the red. Can I pour you a glass or do you prefer something else? They’ve got an extensive wine list. I’ll put it on the county tab.” He handed me a menu.

  I slid my wine glass across the table to him.

  I intended to be agreeable and flexible. The last time we’d worked together, I’d kept things rigidly professional. No friendships for me, and definitely no romance. But Antelope had followed my lead and never once crossed the line I’d drawn in the sand. I felt less tense with him now, but still, as I scanned the menu, I couldn’t think of anything but consulting on the case.

  No matter how hard I tried to get away from it, violent crime fascinated me. In the first months after I became a crime victim, I wanted nothing to do with my chosen field. Shocked and stunned into a dull paralysis, I couldn’t work at all. I took off to Wyoming thinking my work as a psychologist was done.

  But I needed money, and I only knew how to do one thing. So I sta
rted a new practice in Wyoming.

  It was in the first case, working side by side with Antelope, that my excitement came back—the thrill of working at the edge, close to danger. After staying quiet for so long, at once my heart beat again, like a wild, bucking stallion.

  I liked the hard cases. Antelope did too; a shared passion that made him dangerous. We’d bonded over the work, but I’d broken the bond when he got too close.

  Now, though, I’d figured out that I didn’t have to worry about Antelope. If I took care of my side, stayed aware of my own thoughts and feelings, moments of easy playfulness were possible during our time together. Ours was a professional relationship, but it could still be enjoyable.

  “The sheriff wants to bring you on the payroll in a permanent consultant position, with a contract and negotiated hourly rate,” Antelope said. “He thinks we’re spending too much time and money hiring people for a one-off who don’t have what it takes to do the job. He liked your work on Kimi’s investigation. This case is personal for him—again—and he trusts you. If you know the man at all, you know that’s big for him. Think about it before you say no.”

  “Send me the contract. I’ll take a look.”

  “That went better than I thought.”

  “I haven’t said yes.”

  “I’m surprised you’re willing to consider it.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought you liked doing your own thing. Private practice, being your own boss.”

  “I do like it. But I never hired another secretary after Marla. It can get lonely being in the office alone all day; the only people I talk to are the patients I’m treating, and that’s not an equal relationship. I’m used to working in a court clinic with other psychologists. I enjoy the back and forth with other clinicians—conceptualizing cases together.”

  “Sounds like it could work. No shortage of action in the Sheriff’s Department.”

  “I’ll think about it overnight and give you my decision in the morning.”