“That doesn’t explain why Duniway thinks I’d steal three bodies.”
“He’s got a growing file on his desk detailing a big, hairy mess, and you’ve been party to each new complication. The arrow of circumstance points right at you.”
“The arrow of circumstance has terrible aim.”
“Perhaps, but if targeting you lets him close that file—voilà, the system works.”
“Even if the actual criminal gets away?”
“One might argue the criminal is whoever gets convicted of the crime.”
“So you’re saying Duniway is corrupt.”
“Heavens, no! I’m saying he’s a professional with a point of view validated by long experience. More often than not, he’s right.”
“Well, he’s not right this time.”
“That’s why you got me.” Mr. Berber grins. “Now you wait here. I may be awhile.” He stands, adding, “Do you need anything?”
Rocket boots. “The deputy said something about hard-boiled eggs.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Well, Actually
I never do get my egg and toast. Through the window, I watch the line form outside Dailie’s. Tourists. People come and go from Cuppa Jo; a few filter into the Whistle Pig. The Pig doesn’t serve breakfast, but you can eat off the bar menu all day. By nine, I’m willing to commit a felony for some sweet potato tots.
When the door finally opens again, it’s not Mr. Berber, but Jeremy.
“How you holding up, Mel?”
“I’m hungry and I have to pee.”
He rubs his bristly scalp. “I’ll see what I can do.” Ten minutes later, he returns with a banana, an apple turnover, and a latte from the coffee cart in the Barlow Building parking lot. Not as good as Cuppa Jo, but quicker. “I can walk you to the bathroom.”
“Do you have to watch me too?”
“Jesus, Mel.” His cheeks darken. “They could have put you back in a cell.”
At least there was a toilet in my cell. Back in the conference room, he asks if I need anything else. I’m tempted to ask for a clean shirt, but that might be pushing my luck. I shake my head.
He pauses in the doorway. “Mel, I’m sorry about all this shit.”
He looks so wounded, a squirrel of guilt churns in my belly. “It’s not your fault, Jeremy.” It’s all mine. “Thanks for breakfast.”
He smiles thinly. The second he’s gone, I want to punch myself.
Not long after, Mr. Berber returns with his notes of my movements yesterday, typed neatly. “Look this over and make any necessary corrections.”
It’s weird to see my Saturday laid out like an itinerary.
“This all looks right.”
“Great.” He heads for the door. “Shouldn’t be much longer.”
But the door doesn’t open again until noon. When it does, Duniway and the sheriff accompany Mr. Berber. The cops drop into chairs across the table while Mr. Berber sits at my side. He smells of bay rum and breath mints. The scent isn’t enough to blunt the sweat and tobacco miasma creeping across the table.
No one speaks, though Duniway looks at his watch a few times. I assume we’re waiting for Dr. Varney, though I don’t want to risk Duniway’s ire by asking. Phones ring in the outer office, voices pass in the hall. The atmosphere seems to thicken. At last the doctor arrives.
“Sorry for the delay. I was reviewing the reports and my notes from yesterday.”
There’s an open seat beside Duniway, but the doctor sits at the head of the table. Neutral ground. May be just as well since Duniway looks like he wants to beat him with his own shoe. Varney’s skin has a gray cast. Hungover. He drops a folder onto the table, then eases into his chair like he’s slipping into a cold bath.
“We ready?” Duniway drums his thumb against the table.
The sheriff turns one hand over, gesturing for Duniway to proceed. He seems like he’d rather be anywhere else, and for once we’re in agreement. The chief deputy plants his gray gaze on me. “How long did it take you to think up this cattle crap story about your boyfriend?”
He’s trying to get a rise out of me. It works, a little. “According to local gossip, Deputy Chapman is my boyfriend.”
Duniway’s nostrils flare. “I’m not having your back talk today. You’re already in it up to your backside.”
Mr. Berber straightens. “Could we dial it back a notch?” He shows the sheriff his gleaming teeth. “Hayward?”
The sheriff’s lips push in and out. “No, you’re right.” He dips his head as if peering over nonexistent glasses. “Mel, I know you’re tired and anxious, but we’re just trying to get a handle on this situation. Okay?”
I notice he doesn’t scold Duniway. Lips pinched, I nod.
“Okay, then.” He turns to Mr. Berber. “Pax, how would you like to proceed?”
Based on Duniway’s sour look, he’s not happy about giving the floor to my attorney.
With his rich tan and blinding teeth, Pax Berber reminds me of a used car dealer pitching a lemon. “Ms. Dulac, I’ve briefed the sheriff and chief deputy on what you’ve told me about the body, but I think they should hear it from you. Do you mind?”
His tone makes me feel like I’m being worked a little. But the sheriff is right. I am tired and I am anxious. All I want is to get out of here, but that won’t happen if I let Duniway goad me into a dick fight.
I swallow a gob of thick saliva. “As I explained to Mr. Berber, something bothered me at the scene yesterday, but until this morning I didn’t realize what.” I choose my next words carefully. “Even though Kendrick Pride’s body had landed in the prone position, I saw postmortem lividity on the backs of the arms. That wouldn’t be possible if he’d died from the fall.”
The corner of Duniway’s mouth curls. “Amazing what people will cook up after a night in a cell.”
“I’m just telling you what I saw.” I fight the urge to fidget. “For that kind of discoloration to be visible to the naked eye, he’d have to have been dead and lying on his back for at least a couple of hours.”
“Well, I’d say an actual doctor is more qualified to determine time of death than the likes of you.”
Duniway cocks his head like he’s scored a point.
“Well, actually …”—Dr. Varney clears his throat—“she’s right.”
The sheriff lets out a faint snort. Duniway’s pulse throbs in his neck. “What the hell are you saying?”
Color rises in the doctor’s cheeks. “As you well know, any preliminary analysis is subject to change. I’d intended to complete my examination and write my report early this week. But when the sheriff called this morning, I went to the morgue straightaway.”
Duniway looks like he wants to punch the doctor in the throat.
Dr. Varney opens his folder. “The nine-one-one call came in at 5:50, and Fire and Rescue arrived on scene at 6:07, a few minutes before Deputy Chapman. They assessed the victim and determined he was beyond hope of resuscitation. At that point, based on witness reports, the assumption was Kendrick Pride had been dead less than an hour, but per the protocol implemented by the sheriff when he took office, the boys took a liver temp. Uh …”—Dr. Varney taps the top sheet in the folder—“thirty-five-point-one. Given ambient conditions, time of death would have been two or more hours before the body was discovered—possibly longer. It was a warm day.”
“Holy Lord, Aaron,” Duniway snaps. “You couldn’t have realized this yesterday?”
Dr. Varney ducks his head. “I didn’t read the first responder report till this morning. I admit my initial exam was cursory, but I had no reason to doubt what I was told at the scene.”
Duniway’s head swings side to side. “Yesterday it was an accident or ‘Goodbye, cruel world,’ but today—on the say-so of a girl with zero credibility—you’re ready to jump to what? Wrongful death, maybe murder? Because dead guys don’t roll off their backs and climb over bridge railings without help.”
“For Christ’s sake, Omar, I was at a barbec
ue. I’d had a cocktail or two. Maybe I should have looked closer, but according to your people, it was a slam dunk.” Dr. Varney rubs the bridge of his nose. “I like to think I’d have noticed the low liver temp, but honestly, we have Melisende to thank for pointing to the correct determination here. She’s the one who saw what the rest of us missed.” There’s a subtle emphasis on the rest of us, as if to make clear he wasn’t alone at the scene.
Duniway’s lips pull back into a sneer. “Well, since we’re deferring to Nancy Drew, shall we ask her who killed Kendrick Pride? I mean, if she’s doing our jobs now.”
“At least I can admit a mistake.”
With that, the doctor sags into himself, as if he’s expended his last reserves. Duniway’s sneer sharpens, but before he can retort, Mr. Berber taps the table with his index finger.
“Gentlemen.” He looks at each in turn. “I’m sure we all have things we’d rather be doing on a lovely Sunday afternoon. Might we stay on task?”
Duniway glares like Mr. Berber farted in church. “None of this lets her off the hook. What’s the actual time of death?”
Dr. Varney takes a moment to gather himself. “Uh. Best guess, between two and four.”
“Okay, fine.” Duniway’s hard eyes bear down on me. “So where were you between two and four, Mizz Dulac?”
I look at Mr. Berber, who slides copies of my itinerary across the table. “Her movements are well documented during the period in question, verified by your own Deputy Chapman and a citizen contact log entry by a Dryer Lake Resort public safety officer.” He smirks. “And she was several miles away, with the sheriff, when Mr. Pride’s body was discovered.”
Duniway ignores the photocopy. “You still removed evidence from the scene of an active death investigation. I want to know why.”
This is the question I dodged even for Mr. Berber. As answers go, a gut feeling the locket is linked to recent events doesn’t help me. Raising Pride’s speculations doesn’t either. The fact is, sticking my neck out is what gets me in trouble—with Paulette and Landry, and now with this big, hairy mess.
“When I saw it stuck in the wall, I thought …” my voice trails off. It’s a trinket filled with captured memories, lost and found in the desert. All I know for sure is in the short time I knew him, the only time Pride’s self-possession cracked was when I returned it to him. The locket mattered, but not in any way Duniway will understand.
I take a deep breath. “I just wanted to make sure it got back to his family.”
“What a bunch of nonsense.” Duniway turns to the sheriff. “I want her charged. And given that we’ve now apparently decided this is a homicide, I want hindering prosecution added to the bill.” To me, he says, “Your felonies are stacking up.”
The room goes still. Dr. Varney eyes the door. Duniway looks like he wants to make a break too, but across the table toward me. Deep inside my left ear, Fitz tsk-tsks.
“Chief Deputy,” Mr. Berber says at last, “if that’s your position, then my next conversation will have to be with the DA.”
“Fine by me,” Duniway snaps. “We’ve got room at the inn.”
Mr. Berber sighs. “Sheriff, a word?”
The sheriff grips his forehead, then scrubs at his chin. “No need. Melisende, go home. But something like this happens again, you won’t find me so accommodating.” Duniway opens his mouth to protest, but the sheriff cuts him off. “I believe you have an investigation to attend to, Omar. Dr. Varney, we’ll expect your written report this afternoon.”
As they file out, Duniway looks daggers at Dr. Varney. As with all things Duniway, it seems excessive and misplaced. Ignoring the chief deputy, the doctor smiles apologetically at me. I guess that’s something.
When the others have left, Mr. Berber grins. “And with that, you’re free.”
“It feels too easy.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. We’re lucky the sheriff is a reasonable man.”
Is he? Or did he just not want the headache? I guess it works out the same, either way.
“The best thing you can do now, Ms. Dulac, is give the investigation time to move past you.”
“How do I do that?”
“Keep your head down. Cops are like dogs. You think they have you treed, but they’ll forget you the second the next squirrel comes along.”
“Thank you, Mr. Berber.” I’d offer to shake hands, but I don’t like being touched. “I’m sorry I screwed up your golf game.”
“Don’t be. The call came right after I four-putted the second green, and the rest of my foursome were those judges I mentioned earlier. You saved me no end of personal and professional humiliation.”
I hate to think what this long morning has cost Aunt Elodie, but I have plenty of time to run the numbers in my head. It’s an hour and a half before they finally let me go.
THIRTY-FIVE
Doctor’s Orders
People exhaust me. It’s probably why I prefer working with the dead. After so much human contact the last few days, I’m ready to crawl into my own grave.
“And yet you linger in cafés and saloons playing the forlorn maiden.”
Fitz may have a point, but when I’m out in the world, I’m not usually with other people—I’m in a cocoon made of noise and color. The more people, the less I notice them. And, critically, the more people, the less I notice myself.
Except that hasn’t been working lately. Not before Paulette appeared at Cuppa Jo, not in the Whistle Pig later that night. Alone or surrounded, I can’t escape myself any longer.
It’s one thirty before they finally return my personal effects. Immediately I text Barb, who wants to mother me. “Why didn’t you call me, you poor thing?” Before I can pick an appropriate emoji in response, she adds, “I’ll bring you something to wear.”
She insists we start with tots and sangria. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Notch will jerk off in my aioli.”
“I’ll deal with Notch.”
A half-hour later when we walk into the Pig, Notch actually blushes. Barb already got to him, unless he’s reacting to the outfit Barb put me in: sandals, long pleated skirt, and plum-colored silk blouse with billowy sleeves and a scooped neck. My own filthy clothes are tucked away in the overnight bag she brought the clean clothes in. As we take our usual spot under the jackalope, I spot Danae alone in a booth, an open book and a beer in front of her. Our eyes meet, and she gives me a smile before returning to her book. Still friends, I guess.
Our sangrias are out before Barb and I are settled into our seats, the tots a few minutes later. The only light comes from the bar and from the pool tables in back. There, two bikers play a somnolent game, the balls clacking at just the threshold of sound. Between shots, they sip beers and stare into the middle distance. I know how they feel.
Barb leaves the talking to me, but I’m content to sit in companionable silence, crunch tots, and sip sangria until a shadow falls over the table.
“Mind if I join you?”
Jeremy.
Barb lifts one eyebrow. Jeremy radiates a kind of moist heat out of place in the high desert. I’d like to tell him a turnover and a latte don’t make up for my last twenty-four hours, but I’m too tired. “Fine.”
“There’s a toll,” Barb says. “Another round, on you.” That’s probably not a good idea, but I don’t argue. Bemused, Jeremy returns a minute later with our drinks and an expression of rapt expectation. I don’t move. Barb makes room for him instead. I want to kiss her.
“You look nice, Mel.” The man is incapable of being quiet.
“I look like a woman who spent the night in a cell.”
He flinches but recovers quickly. “I just meant your outfit.”
I squirm, suddenly conscious of the sensation of silk on my skin. The alien softness is at once luxurious and disconcerting. Barb watches me, smiling. “It looks better on you,” I say to her. She has the chest for it.
“The purple brings out your eyes.”
I emit the aural
equivalent of a shrug. “But how are people supposed to know I put the fun in funerals?”
She cackles, but Jeremy doesn’t seem to know what’s so funny. He huddles over his beer like he’s afraid someone will take it. Even though the Pig is cool, his face is filmed with sweat. Barb prods him with her elbow.
“Jesus, Jeremy. Lighten up.”
He grabs his glass and manages to spill beer on himself. I focus on the basket of tots. Notch arrives with a couple of salads I didn’t know Barb had ordered. He helps Jeremy mop up, then asks if we need anything else. No one answers.
After Notch slinks off, Jeremy tries again. “You really have them riled, you know.”
“It’s my superpower.” I stab a tot into the chili aioli and leave half behind.
“Duniway doesn’t like the wrongful death scenario.”
I laugh without humor. “But it gives him what he wants—something else to pin on me.”
“Oh, he thinks you’re involved, but since you raised the idea, he insists it can’t be right.”
“What does he think happened? I hurt the man’s feelings so bad he threw his own corpse off the bridge?”
“I don’t know, Mel. I don’t even think he knows.”
That makes me wonder if Duniway has heard about the fourth skull in the retort. It’s more ammo to use against me, but it never came up the whole time I was in custody. Fourth car, fourth skull, fourth body with a bullet in it. There are secrets everywhere.
I look at Jeremy. “How does Duniway explain Pride falling off the bridge hours after he died?”
He spreads his hands. “He thinks the Fire and Rescue guys screwed up the liver temp. Or if Pride did die earlier, the body somehow got snagged up above before finally dropping.”
“That sounds plausible,” Barb says sarcastically. Her first sangria a memory, she reaches for the second. “Or at least it will once I get six or eight more of these in me.”
Jeremy manages a dry laugh. “The problem is there’s nowhere on that bridge a body could go unnoticed for hours before falling. You got the deck, the guardrail, and open air. If he hung himself and the rope broke, where’s the rope?”
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