Trouble in Action

by Susan Y. Tanner

  But, back to the evidence at hand. The prints appear to come from some type of boot with a treaded sole. The size is not distinguishing and could belong to either a man or a woman. For now, I will continue to think of the killer as male. So much easier than thinking in terms of his or her at every point. I can visualize these prints belonging to said guilty party for a couple of reasons. First, it looks as if the wearer rocked back on the heels at some point. When the weapon was swung up and into place? Second, the prints then come forward toward the table. To ensure the victim is indeed dead? Perhaps. And perhaps not.

  Even as I study the prints, I keep one ear tuned to the conversation of the two investigators as it continues on the other side of the table. Nothing yet has been said of particular interest. I’ve heard little beyond the typical exchange of humans used to working with one another.

  “You video while I bag and describe.”

  I glance up as a small sound of irritation catches my attention and find Harley scowling at Parks’ words. I’m confident by now that he’s the junior officer and deduce from his expression that he either doesn’t like being given an assignment or doesn’t like the assignment itself. He would, perhaps, rather be the person in front of the camera rather than behind.

  Parks begins with the rifle, as I would have done. It looks to be quite the relic and she describes it as such. It may or may not be the murder weapon but she doesn’t speculate on that. If it does prove to be, the more interesting fact will be that it was left behind. Why? Because it can’t be traced or because it can be traced to someone not the killer? A frame? Interesting possibility but mere – and more – speculation at this point. In all likelihood, the murder weapon is far away from the scene of the crime.

  The next item, which she describes as a cup of beans, has a utensil still upright in it, indicating that sufficient of the contents remained to support the utensil. It seems the killer interrupted her morning meal. But – beans? – what a beastly menu item with which to break one’s fast. Her last meal was a dreary one. I find that sad.

  Parks bags one last item, a small lantern of sorts, and removes her gloves. “That’s about it for here, Harley. All we’re going to do now is cast a couple of these prints in front of the table.”

  He nods. “Where the killer stood.”

  I considered that a reasonable comment but she straightens her spine and comes back with an equally reasonable response. I find no fault in her words, but her tone could have been less acerbic. “Until we have the coroner’s report, I can’t begin to guess the force or angle at which the bullet entered her body. Without that, I can’t determine distance or trajectory. Despite your hypothesis of events, we have no facts. Your suppositions could prove to be accurate, I’ll give you that. In fact, I suspect they are. On the other hand, the killer could have been a sniper hidden in any one of the trees surrounding us, waiting from the moment she woke up.”

  She completes the casting process in the heavy silence that falls on the heels of her comments. She has selected the two closest to the table. They are the clearest of the prints but I’m less certain they are the most telling in terms of a depiction of the crime. They will, regardless, serve the same purpose if a suspect can be linked.

  The investigators repack their equipment bags without further conversation. With a last glance back, I follow them from the woods and wonder if I alone hear the softly uttered “bitch” from Harley as he trails behind Parks.

  Despite Park’s shrewd assessment, like Harley, I’m inclined to believe the killer approached on foot and stood right in front of his victim as he shot her. Unlike Harley, I took the time to look for and follow the prints as they first left the woods and approached the victim. The tread of the sole, the pattern of movement, all pressed into dirt and damp grass, is fixed in my mind. Every aspect can be retrieved from my well-developed memory, if needed, at a later date. Harley needs to learn to trust and act upon his instincts. If they prove wrong, so be it. At least he will have tried and remained true to himself. Lessons he, no doubt, will learn with time.

  * * *

  With his thoughts back at the fairground, Wolf took the scenic route to Rita’s sprawling property near the college. They were more than a decade past any bitterness but neither were they one another’s favorite person. He wondered sometimes how they’d stayed married as long as they had. If he were a different kind of person, he might wish they hadn’t but he wasn’t one to live in regret. And there was no reason to believe he would ever have found someone who was right for him. Some people didn’t.

  Stepping out of the truck, he walked around to the back where he knew he was most apt to find his ex on a Sunday morning. The gate to her garden area made just enough noise as he pushed it open. Rita glanced up and laid her book aside. She didn’t look surprised to see him but, then, Rita was not one to display emotion. Emotions made wrinkles.

  “Good morning, Wolf. Would you like coffee?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  “Have a seat then and I won’t have to get up.” Her smile was faint. “What brings you here. Not that you aren’t welcome. You know you always are.”

  Oddly enough, as loveless as their marriage had been, he did know that. He took the seat she offered. “Les asked me to come by and, yes, he’s fine,” he added as he saw her tense up. They didn’t get along well but Rita loved her brother. Wolf would give her that.

  “That’s good then.” In true Rita fashion, she didn’t question, she simply waited.

  Damn, he hated what he had to tell her. The reenactment was her brainchild. She’d worked night and day to bring it to life. The historical society might own the event but Rita had been the force of nature that made it happen, sometimes in spite of the stodgy group who’d liked the idea but not the gritty reality of the work involved.

  Wolf didn’t bother trying to soften the blow. Rita appreciated bluntness more than any woman he knew. “There’s been a murder, somewhere between the fairgrounds and the Boundary. Les said it was one of the reenactors.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. Looking at her sitting there, he acknowledged to himself that she was, to this day, still one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. And he was as unmoved by that beauty as ever. Even more, somehow her vibrant red hair – still natural – and creamy fair skin paled beside a quick memory of wheat-blonde hair and freckled cheeks that he suspected had experienced more use of plain bar soap than facial products with exclusive labeling.

  When Rita opened her eyes, she fixed him with a piercing look. “Are you working with Les?”

  He hesitated, not sure that Les had yet made the call. Or that he even would. “Not my jurisdiction,” he reminded. “But I imagine I will be, yes.”

  “I’ll call Les to make sure of that. I want you on it.”

  Not even his influential ex-wife could get past those jurisdictional barriers if her brother balked at the last minute but damned if she wouldn’t try.

  “Regardless, Les promised to keep me in the loop at a minimum,” he said. He didn’t mention that this visit was the price of that. No one wanted to bring Rita bad news. Ever.

  “I need it wrapped up fast and no negative publicity.” She tapped a fingertip with light precision in the center of her forehead. He recognized it as one of her self-reminders not to frown. “I’ll have to see how we can make use of this.”

  And this was the predictable point at which Les would expect Wolf’s intervention as his part of their bargain. “I wouldn’t try that, Rita.” He held up a hand as she opened her mouth to argue. “Seriously.” She closed it again and that surprised him. “This was a young woman, very attractive, and she was shot through the heart. There’s no way you, or anyone else, can turn any aspect of that into a positive.”

  Her exhale was long and slow. “Yes, you’re right. Again.”

  He didn’t smile. She hated when he was right.

  She tapped her forehead again, a sure sign her stress level was rising. Odd that he could look at her and
feel an affection he’d never known during their marriage. Some thought her vain. She wasn’t. Rita was a good person with a dread of growing old because growing old led to dying. And that - the very idea of her own death - terrified her.

  “Does Grant know what’s happened yet? He will, without a doubt, be a complete pain in the ass about this.”

  “Dean Edmunds is all up in it,” Wolf said dryly.

  “Well, I’m sure I’ll hear from him soon so I appreciate the heads up.”

  Wolf got to his feet, seeing the comment as his opportunity to escape.

  “You’ll keep me informed?”

  He knew Les was going to expect that as well. The sheriff had a real affection for his sister. He just didn’t like talking to her. “I will as much as I can. I promise. Try not to worry too much about it.”

  Wolf had his own worry to deal with it. The thought niggling at the back of his mind was how little some of the old-school tribal members liked the idea of this reenactment at their doorstep. They weren’t a bunch of crazies but, as in any segment of society, there was one or two among them who were.

  Halfway back to the fairgrounds, he got the call from his director. Les had kept his word. Wolf was reassigned to the murder of Maisy McGuire until further notice.

  Chapter Four

  I’ve gleaned a good bit on this case by doing nothing more than keeping my eyes and ears open. None of it official, mind you, it remains hearsay, but from very credible sources, namely all manner of law enforcement who have swarmed the area and aren’t averse to talking out of school amongst themselves, black cat notwithstanding.

  Victim’s name, Maisy McGuire. Age, twenty-six. Occupation, middle school history teacher. Hobby, historical reenactments, specifically the Civil War. It appeared she, along with her partner for whom the police are still looking as a person of interest, was a Civil War aficionado. They were also considered to be what reenactors dub hard core authentic, which somehow explains the nasty looking cup of beans that appears to have been Ms. McGuire’s final meal.

  And that last, the hobby bit, led me to some fascinating history – no pun intended – on these reenactments. It seems there are tens or even hundreds of thousands of people who act out events or periods of history. And not just in America. Oh, my no, it would seem this is a global preoccupation with experiencing things past. Even disagreeable things, like war and executions and witch hunts and other manner of unpleasantries.

  No one that I’ve overheard has offered an opinion on why this is so. It simply is. And the deceased Ms. Maisy McGuire was one of those people. Whether or not this pastime plays into her death remains to be seen. The time and place may have been pure happenstance. The choice of vintage weapon, a mere fluke. Then again, perhaps not.

  When my information gathering became repetitious, I turned my attention to finding Kylah. Checking up on her, as it were. Interesting as murder is, she remains my priority. I sense something vulnerable beneath her persona of strength. It tugs at me and I feel compelled to assure myself of her well-being.

  * * *

  Wolf pulled into the fairgrounds and parked near the barns. He intended to do nothing more than touch base with Les. This was his weekend off duty and he’d planned an afternoon on the lake with a fishing pole and a six pack. His first inclination had been to cancel those plans but he’d reconsidered. Unless the sheriff needed him elsewhere, that fishing expedition could prove beneficial to the investigation.

  As he stepped out of his truck, he glanced across at the horse trailer still parked where Grant had grudgingly allowed it to remain. It was in a premium location alongside the barn and adjacent to the enclosed equestrian center. Wolf didn’t see anyone near the trailer but Jake was emerging from the barn leading a nice-looking horse, already saddled. The saddle wasn’t like anything Wolf had seen before and he’d seen plenty. It took him a moment to realize that, though not archaic, it was a replica of an antique. He was close enough to see that the leather was far from old and in excellent shape.

  Curious, only curious he told himself, he followed the man and horse through the roll-up doors where he paused long enough to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light within. Jake had stopped just inside as well and stood watching as Kylah cantered a straight line down the length of the oval arena.

  The animal beneath her appeared larger than average, his strides easy but reaching. His coat gleamed, dark and sleek, but Wolf couldn’t tell if he were seal brown or a true black. Regardless, he was magnificent, his movements elegant. Without warning, in one obscenely graceful moment, the animal’s legs folded beneath him and he fell and rolled to his side. Wolf’s heart jumped and he lunged forward to rescue the rider, aware she might already be pinned beneath the horse’s bulk.

  Jake’s free arm shot out to stop him, catching him hard across his chest. “Whoa, hero. She’s fine.”

  It took a moment for the words to make it through Wolf’s instinctive reaction. It took him a bit longer to appreciate the wiry strength in the cowboy’s outthrust arm.

  He watched as Kylah rolled to one side of the horse which had not moved since coming to rest in the dirt. Wolf brushed at Jake’s arm. Whatever was wrong, she’d need help with that horse. Jake’s arm didn’t budge and Wolf fought the urge to bring it down with a knifehand strike, knowing it would be an abuse of his training. The cowboy posed no threat. Instead Wolf stepped back and around the obstacle he presented.

  “She won’t appreciate you going out there.” More than the words, the quiet certainty with which they were spoken made Wolf hesitate. He glanced at Jake, then back at the girl who sat cross-legged some distance apart, watching the animal. After a moment, she got to her feet. The horse remained supine. She backed a dozen or so steps away before stopping, never once taking her eyes from the horse. When she stopped again, she made a tiny gesture with her hand and the horse rolled over and pushed up, every bit as graceful as when he’d dropped.

  “I’ll be damned,” Wolf muttered. He wasn’t usually this slow on the uptake but then he’d never experienced or cared to experience a reenactment. If a cavalry scene were involved, no doubt Kylah and this horse were going to be a part of that.

  He ignored Jake’s snort of amusement at his expense and watched as Kylah walked toward them with a long, steady stride. She held out the reins to Jake and took those of the sorrel he’d brought in to her.

  “He worked well today,” Jake commented.

  Kylah ran one hand down the dark brown neck. “Very well. I think he’s pretty much ready to go.” She gave Wolf one long glance, then led the second horse back into the arena.

  Wolf suspected he’d been dismissed, but he didn’t plan on going anywhere. Not yet. He settled onto the bleachers and watched as she walked, trotted, then slow-loped circles to warm the horse’s muscles.

  A glimpse of movement in the seating below pulled his attention from her for a moment. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to see the black cat winding his way upward.

  He sensed when Kylah was nearing the end of the warm-up period. She gathered the reins with a light hand before leaning her shoulders forward, where as before, she’d sat with hips forward and back straight. This time in response to whatever subtle signal she gave, instead of a slow roll-over, this horse reared straight up, pawing toward the high domed ceiling. When those front hooves hit the ground hard in a full-on run, Wolf’s heart thudded, even though he’d known to expect something.

  The cat, which had reached the section where he was sitting, leapt to the space beside him. He sat on his haunches and turned his gaze to the arena below where Kylah had stopped her horse and sat motionless, the horse equally motionless beneath her.

  * * *

  Kylah had learned long ago to focus on the here and now. Soon after Marty’s death, within days, to be more precise. It was that ability to disappear into her work that had saved her. If she hadn’t learned to ground herself, to put toxic thoughts away for periods of time, she would never have made it through.

 
Despite Dean Edmunds brushing aside this morning’s death as accidental, Kylah suspected it was anything but. Throughout the morning, activity around the fairground had both heated up and cooled down. The presence of investigators had faded into the background as reenactors swarmed in, jockeying for the best parking spots for their campers and RV’s. Faded but not disappeared. But with a job to do, Kylah pushed thoughts of police officers and ambulances with red whirling lights aside.

  The arena, at least, was quiet and cool and almost empty. There would be reenactors with horses but those were not stunt animals and would have to be proven gun safe. She was not a reenactor and her horses were trained far beyond remaining calm in the face of gunfire.

  Dismounting, she leaned her face into her horse’s neck, breathing in the clean warmth of him. She could feel the steady gaze from the bleachers but she didn’t glance up, as if by ignoring the sexy as hell man who watched her, he wouldn’t exist. Like the mouse in the Christmas tree. The thought made her smile with a memory. It had been their first Christmas. First together, ever, first as a married couple. Their courtship had been whirlwind fast.

  She’d suspected the mouse had come in with the tree, even ridden with it on some truck loaded with spruce and driven miles on stretches of interstate from the mountains. The tiny creature was tucked into the branches, back pressed against the trunk, and it was the first time she’d understood the phrase still as a mouse. The little creature was motionless, with its eyes closed tight. She told Marty, “He thinks if he can’t see me, then I can’t see him.” Marty had laughed and agreed. They’d managed to capture the frightened creature in a paper sack and turned it loose together at the edge of the little woods that backed their yard. Marty had put his arm around her in the chill night air and squeezed tight. She could close her eyes and see the woods, the stars glittering above, even smell his favorite aftershave. But no matter how much she tried, she could no longer recall the exact sound of his voice. That terrified her.