Hometown Homicide

by C. K. Crigger

  “I can talk for myself, Chloe,” the old man said.

  They leaned forward, into his whisper. Frankie got out her stethoscope, warmed it a second, and put it against his chest.

  Damn.

  “Like hell, Arne. You ain’t got the strength God gave a mouse.” Despite Chloe’s rude words, Frankie had an idea the woman truly cared for the old man.

  Ignoring her, he looked up at Frankie. “My chest hurts. Feels like Chloe is sitting on it.”

  Chloe ignored the implied slur on her weight. “You’re having a heart attack, you old fool. You need to go to the hospital and have the doctors take a look at you.”

  Frankie agreed with the caregiver. Sweat rolled down Mr. Birch’s face; his skin grayed like old fireplace ash.

  While Marc took vitals and started the IV, she made certain air was coming through the tube into his nose, cranking it up a bit to increase the flow. Frankie got on the radio to the medical center and reported, receiving instructions to bring the patient in STAT.

  Chloe smirked, as though vindicated. “Told you so.”

  “Will you follow us to the hospital?” Frankie asked. Mrs. Schimmer had her back turned as she rummaged in a messy closet.

  “Not me.” The woman handed over a packed duffle bag. “Here’s Arne’s stuff. There’s an envelope right on top. It tells you all the medications he’s taking along with his medical history and his directive. I’ll call his son. He lives in Coeur d’Alene. I expect he’ll meet you at the hospital.”

  The woman’s preparation impressed Frankie.

  “This ain’t the first time Arne and me been through this. Got ’er down pat.” Echoing Marc’s earlier diagnosis, Chloe made as if to glare at the old man, but her eyes swam with unshed tears.

  Frankie and Marc loaded Mr. Birch onto the gurney. The poor old fellow couldn’t have weighed more than one twenty-five.

  “Don’t you worry none,” he quavered to his caregiver. “You won’t be out of a job. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  “I know you will.” Appearing rather lost, Mrs. Schimmer nodded as Frankie and Marc wheeled their patient out.

  Marc drove. Frankie sat with the patient in the back of the ambulance, monitoring equipment. The old man seemed more comfortable now, his clenched hands relaxing.

  She smiled down at him. “All right, Mr. Birch?”

  “Fine.” Of course, he wasn’t.

  Frankie got out the envelope with his medical history and list of pharmaceutical needs, scanning it quickly. The meds were all familiar, no surprise for a man with a history of heart disease. A long history, as it happened. Arne’d already had two previous emergency runs to the hospital this year. Chloe’s list included a roster of his physicians. His regular seemed to be Doctor Cloudet, a Spokane internist with a specialty in geriatric heart patients. The only other mentioned was Dr. Muncie.

  Given the nudge, as she slipped the notes back in the envelope, her patient’s name finally penetrated the fogs of her memory. Arne Birch was one of the names on the Smoke Signals list. Only while most of the other people whose names she’d recognized were all dead, this one was still alive. So far.

  She glanced at Mr. Birch, whose eyes were closed. He seemed to be asleep, his chest rising with a breath, then shuddering its way back down.

  Retreating to the back of the ambulance, she got out her cell phone. After three rings, Gabe picked up.

  “ ‘Lo.”

  “Smoke Signals, have you found out who the list belongs to yet?”

  A pause. She heard the bed frame squeak as if he were sitting up. “Frankie? Is that you? What are you doing calling me at five o’clock in the morning.”

  Her shoulders hunched. Oopsie. He sounded a little crotchety—No, He sounded a lot crotchety. “I’m sorry to wake you. It’s just that we got called out a while ago to an elderly gentleman named Arne Birch. His name ring any bells with you?”

  The bed frame, at least, she assumed it was the bed frame, squeaked again. “It does,” he said slowly. “You mean he’s still alive?”

  Was that surprise she heard?

  She glanced at her patient. “So far, yes. But…” She left it there, unwilling to say more for fear the old man would overhear.

  Gabe seemed fully awake now. “What does this have to do with Smoke Signals.”

  “I have in my hand a list of Mr. Birch’s physicians. All two of them.”

  Oh, yes. Gabe was definitely awake. “And?”

  “A Dr. Phillip Cloudet and Dr. Ned Muncie.”

  She heard his breath go out.

  “I’m on it,” he said and hung up.

  Frankie blinked down at her phone. One of these days, she was going to hang up on somebody—anybody—just to see how it felt.

  As promised, Gabe was up and gone when Frankie got home. The house sat silent and a little lonely, except for Banner and Shine who came to greet her with tails wagging like windshield wipers in a cloudburst. The kitchen smelled of coffee, and when she felt of the carafe, she found it still warm to the touch. A note scrawled in Gabe’s strong handwriting lay on the table.

  Did I remember to tell you, Good Work?

  No. He hadn’t.

  The note said something else. Save me a slow dance.

  Frankie smiled. Then frowned. Save him a dance? She didn’t dance. With her clumsy foot?

  But as she washed her face and donned shorts and a T-shirt before bed, she remembered the physical therapy tech saying she could do anything while wearing the prosthesis that she’d done before. Run, hike, climb—dance. She just needed the confidence to try these things, and enough practice to master the activity.

  She dreamed of waltzing in a princess-like setting and racing down the dance floor with the intricate footwork of a quick step. In the dream, both feet were perfect. She wore high-heeled sandals and a short, twirly green skirt made of gossamer lace. Her partner, matching her step-for-step, wore Gabe’s face.

  Fat chance.

  She’d never danced a quick step in her life.

  Maggie’s benefit party for Larry Biggs was in full swing. The high school kids and their country rock band sounded pretty darn good, belting out a mixture of new stuff and old standards. Karl’s daughter stood a chance of making a career choice in music if tonight’s performance was any indication. Americas Got Talent or The Voice was mentioned more than once.

  Frankie, wearing fancy jeans, the blue blouse Jesselyn had chosen, and an ordinary pair of shoes, heard a low-voiced argument break out between two farm wives over which program found the superior talent.

  Somebody—more of Maggie’s doing, no doubt—had decorated the community center with paper streamers and colorful tablecloths. Platters of home-baked cookies, a never-empty coffee urn, and a clear plastic bowlful of bilious green punch furnished refreshment. Only the younger kids had enough nerve to try the punch. Anyone over the age of ten gave it a wide berth, preferring to bring in their own cans of soft drinks. Frankie suspected a few were spiked with something a little stronger than Pepsi or Mountain Dew. A clear jar stuffed to the point of overflowing with currency, fives, tens, twenties, sat at the end of the table. The burned man was going to be very relieved.

  So far, Frankie had managed to maneuver around the hardwood floor at least a dozen times without stumbling. Maybe because, just for tonight, she left off the ankle holster. One of those dances was with Matt Chavez, whom Jesselyn introduced to her at last. Matt, blue-eyed but with a dark Hispanic complexion to match his ebony hair, was lean and lanky and totally not what she expected. He started their conversation with intelligent questions about Afghanistan culture and edged in a mention of the murders—in a general sort of way.

  “Jesselyn tells me you moved into Denise Rider’s duplex at her instigation.” Matt guided her to the right, barely avoiding a couple involved in a slow dance. “She feels bad about what’s happened.”

  “Me too. Believe me, I’ve rued the day I ever saw that place, especially when it blew up around me.”

&n
bsp; He gave a snort. “I can imagine.”

  “You knew her—Denise—didn’t you?” Frankie watched his face.

  Matt nodded. “I went out with her for a while—a lady with expensive tastes. I got lucky. She dumped me,” he admitted with no apparent rancor.

  “Did you know Howie St. James, too?”

  “Sure. Everybody knew Howie. It’s hard to believe anyone considered him a threat. He always struck me as an innocent.”

  “An innocent?”

  Matt gave her an easy twirl. “Yeah. Not too smart, but always his own worst enemy.”

  His opinion exactly matched Frankie’s. Dropping the subject, Matt ended up raving about Jesselyn. Frankie decided she liked him.

  She danced the next couple of tunes with Lake people who’d turned out in number to support the cause. To Frankie’s own surprise, she was having fun.

  The only disappointing aspect of the evening was the promised slow dance with Gabe. Apparently, it wasn’t going to happen since he hadn’t as yet put in an appearance. With most of the EMS group rotating attendance, so no one entirely missed the party, she knew there’d been no new emergency to demand his presence. Today was his scheduled day off—so where was he? One thing for damn sure. She didn’t plan on calling him to ask. No, siree.

  Jesselyn, perched at Frankie’s side on one of the folding chairs lining the curved Quonset hut walls, sipped from a Pepsi can that emitted a strong odor of bourbon. Her eyes followed Matt, circumspectly two-stepping with one of his co-workers.

  “He’s nice, your Matt Chavez.” Frankie nudged Jesselyn in the ribs. “Why didn’t you want to introduce us before?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I was afraid you’d think he was another of my loser boyfriends.” Jesselyn sighed. “I have a kind of reputation for picking bad boys. But he’s not a bad boy, regardless of his jail time. And he’s not a loser.”

  “I can tell.” Frankie didn’t even try to prevent the little smirk curling up the corners of her mouth.

  Jesselyn wiggled in her seat. “Talk about me, what about the way you keep watching the door? Expecting someone?”

  Frankie hoped the room was dark enough to hide the tell-tale flush she felt burning over her cheekbones. “Who me? No. What makes you think I’m expecting anyone?” Bad enough getting stood up. No need to let everybody know.

  Jesselyn rolled her eyes in a “gimme a break” look. “Pretty obvious. And unless you’ve met someone I don’t know about, it must be either Gabe Zantos, Chris What’s-His-Name, or Lenny Ludiker.”

  “Lenny who?”

  “Guess it’s not him.” Jesselyn grinned. “Bet it’s not Chris What’s-His-Name, either.”

  Jesselyn saw too much.

  “Atkins,” Frankie said as if she hadn’t caught any of the other names. “Chris Atkins.”

  Of course, Gabe chose that moment to put in an appearance. Jesselyn leered. “As if you even care what his name is.”

  “Right.” Frankie watched as Gabe surveyed the room from the doorway before heading toward her. She barely heard Jesselyn’s laugh, was unaware as her friend got up and moved away.

  A trill of excitement touched her as Gabe approached. He looked tired and a little worn, but something more, too, like a weight had been taken off his shoulders. His smile down at her was easy.

  He stopped in front of her. “Ready for that dance?”

  Frankie peered up at him, tuning out everything else going on around them. Music, motion, too many people talking at once—it all evaporated.

  “If you don’t mind having your toes stepped on. Literally, I mean.”

  He laughed and held his hand out to her. Taking a deep breath, she rose, aware of Karl’s daughter crooning a love song perfect for the promised slow dance.

  “I’ve got some good news,” Gabe said as she moved into his arms. “We arrested Dr. Muncie early this evening. It’s taken this long to get him booked into the county jail.”

  They glided smoothly over the dance floor, steps melding, fitting together like sugar and spice. It should’ve been romantic. Should’ve.

  “The charges?”

  “Fraud, to begin with. Your Mr. Birch provided critical information. A search warrant allowed access to Muncie’s records. We also found a second set of books. We got him.”

  Fraud was good, but it wasn’t foremost on Frankie’s mind. “What about the murders? What about the explosion and the attack at the station? Those too?”

  “He’s been charged.” Gabe hesitated. “Evidence is not so cut and dried there, but we’re still looking. Turns out Denise worked for him at one time. They had an affair, but then the doc got tired of her. He found another babe and fired Denise. Evidently, she’d seen the handwriting on the wall and guessed the split was coming. She managed to get the goods on the doc and tried a spot of blackmail. His motive is solid.”

  Frankie sensed something lacking. “But?”

  They’d almost managed a full circuit of the floor without Frankie stumbling even once, or having been guilty of stepping on his toes. Gabe was a good leader.

  He shrugged. “A few loose ends. We still need to find the gun. Check an alibi. That sort of thing. Don’t worry. We’ve got the right man.”

  As they neared the door leading to the parking lot, a commotion stirred through a small group of smokers standing outside puffing on cigarettes. Frankie peered over the top of Gabe’s shoulder and saw a woman push another woman aside as if batting at flies. The yard light glinted off a flash of diamonds.

  “Look out,” she breathed. “Incoming.”

  Before Gabe could ask what she meant, Mrs. Ned Muncie—No, make that Alexis Barwick—strode into the hall, her eyes like a pair of heat-seeking missiles boring down on Gabe.

  “You,” the woman hissed. She grabbed Gabe’s arm and, ignoring Frankie as though she were invisible, wrenched him around. “You miserable, stupid son-of-a-bitch. What do you think you’re doing? You won’t get away with arresting my husband. He’s an important man. I’m telling you.”

  The couples nearest them halted mid-step, their attention riveted on Alexis. As though on cue, the music died. Those talking hushed in mid-sentence.

  Frankie, her hand still on Gabe’s shoulder, felt his muscles tighten into clumps like frozen earth. Still, he answered coolly enough. “Your husband’s arrest is based on the available evidence, Ms. Barwick. Just doing my job.”

  “Your job.” It sounded more like a mama wolf’s growl than actual words. “Your freaking job! We’ll see what kind of job you can get after I’m done with you.”

  “Are you threatening me, ma’am?”

  “You bet I am,” Ms. Barwick snarled.

  “I’d like to point out there are a good many witnesses,” Frankie cut in, even though she knew better.

  Alexis Barwick ignored her, a mere gnat on the bug screen. Actually, Gabe did the same, his focus all on Dr. Muncie’s famous wife.

  “I’ll have my husband out of your filthy jail tonight. I’m warning you, keep your hands off him. I won’t tolerate it.” The woman’s heavily made-up eyes bulged. It was eerie as if no one but she and Gabe were there.

  “Or?” It seemed to Frankie that Gabe almost smiled.

  “You’ll see.” Alexis took a breath. Her apparent case of tunnel vision lifted and she fixed on Frankie. “Or maybe this slut will see.”

  Frankie’s eyes narrowed. Her heartbeat revved up a notch.

  “I think you’d better leave, Ms. Barwick.” Gabe moved in front of Frankie. “Before you say something you’ll regret. Your husband will be arraigned Monday. You can say your piece to the judge.”

  Alexis’s nose pinched with the breath she took. “Oh, you can bet I will.” She whirled, tilting a little on her stiletto heels, and rushed out of the hall as swiftly as she’d entered.

  “Wow,” Frankie said.

  So much for her slow dance.

  Chapter 23

  Gabe was still absent the next morning when Frankie climbed out of bed, fumbling her way f
rom between two dogs. Gabe had left immediately after the confrontation with Ms. Barwick at the dance, going back to work collating facts and evidence against Dr. Muncie. Frankie hadn’t heard a word from him since.

  She understood. He didn’t want any loose ends fouling the investigation at this late date. She didn’t want any either. The sooner the case was cleared up, the sooner she could resume a normal life.

  All of which, home alone after the party last night, caused her to wander the house for an hour, speculating on whether he showed up at the benefit just to dance with her. Nah, she decided finally. Couldn’t be. But then why—

  This was a new day. Putting coffee on to brew, Frankie took the dogs out for their morning pee and territorial marking. While they cavorted on the grass, darting from sunlight into shade, she watched two hummingbirds fluttering in a fragrant purple butterfly bush. She noticed her grandma’s roses had a new flush of blooms—and she spied three bullet holes in the big old dog house located beneath the spreading branches of a massive spruce tree.

  Bullet holes that hadn’t been there yesterday.

  “Crap.” It came out a squeak.

  Standing back, she walked a cautious circuit around the doghouse. No tracks, no sign of booby-traps, no brass spun out from the potshots. Just the holes. The angle of fire suggested the person had stood at the street—or maybe sat in a car—and shot toward the property at random. The bullets had passed through the wood, gone who knows where.

  Since no one called into EMS with gunshot wounds, it appeared the doghouse was the only victim.

  If this was Alexis Barwick’s idea of following through on her threat to the “slut,” she hadn’t done her homework. She must not know Frankie kept her dogs inside.

  Which is, Frankie huffed to herself, where they’ll stay until this is over.

  Her temper boiled with rage, even as her heart jumped with apprehension. Yet she couldn’t help feeling a bit of scorn along with everything else. This had been a stupid move, vindictive and childish. Odd behavior, she couldn’t help thinking, for a woman with Alexis Barwick’s reputation of sophisticated shrewdness. The attorney’s actions last night must be an aberration.