Hometown Homicide

by C. K. Crigger

  Oh, Lord. What should she do? Save her house or follow the dogs?

  Aware of the fire already igniting the rough old porch boards, Frankie ran for the garden hose. Attached to the spigot, the garden hose lay in a neat, tight coil. She flipped on the tap and, dragging the hose, began spraying down the porch as the flames caught hold.

  “Call the police,” she hollered at the neighbor, choking on a puff of accelerant-laden smoke. “Call the fire department.”

  He ran over to lend a hand. “On their way.”

  It seemed forever before she heard approaching sirens. Even as she fought to save her house, her legacy, uppermost on her mind were the dogs.

  “Please, please,” she chanted, unable to voice the rest of it—the part about not letting them be hurt. Not be killed. “Please.”

  Karl Mager was first on the scene, driving his pickup. He took the hose from Frankie and told her to get out of the way.

  “Good Lord, girl, you don’t have any shoes on. You can’t fight a fire in bare feet.”

  Frankie couldn’t think of how ugly her amputation was, or that people were going to see the stump. That Karl was seeing it now didn’t make any difference. The dogs—they were what mattered. And her house. It mattered, too. Gladly, she released the garden hose into Karl’s capable hands even as the pumper truck roared up and three men and a woman, garbed in their breakouts, jumped down and set to tearing away the front steps and the parts of the porch on fire.

  The neighbor was there, too, staring into the flames. With the fire in good hands, Frankie ran over to him.

  “Did you see her?” She gripped old Mr. Furnough’s arm tightly enough to leave a bruise. “Did you see my dogs?”

  He splayed his fingers as if they were going numb under her pressure. “Saw somebody running away. Saw your big white dog. Only the one.”

  Shine was little. Maybe he just hadn’t noticed her, what with everything else going on.

  “Which way did they go?”

  Mr. Furnough wrenched his arm free, shook it out, and pointed. “That way. Toward the lake road. Looked like the dog was about to catch up.”

  Without another word, Frankie tore off down the road, running. With her pickup blocked in by the fire truck and Karl’s rig, it was on foot or nothing. And she was damned if she’d leave the dogs to the woman. What if she had a gun?

  What if she…

  It’d been a mistake to drop Darryl’s pistol at the faucet when she turned on the water. Another mistake not to go back for it.

  Well, it couldn’t be helped now. She had to catch up before the woman got away. Hell, she’d use rocks for weapons if that’s what it took.

  Panting, she raced down the middle of the road, oblivious to the stones rolling beneath her feet.

  Headlights shone on the road from behind Frankie, throwing her shadow out in front. A car horn beeped.

  Beeped again. Frankie pretended not to hear. About a block ahead, the sound of dogs barking shattered any peace the night might have held. She knew Banner’s gruff bark like she knew her own voice. Shine’s, in keeping with her small dog status, rose over the Samoyed’s, higher and sharper. Blended together as they were, Frankie was certain they had their quarry treed—so to speak.

  The horn blared again. Huffing and puffing like an old granny, Frankie slowed to a jog and moved to the side of the road. The rig pulled up beside her.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the driver yelled. Gabe.

  Irritated? Oh, yeah. Carefully, she avoided looking at him.

  “I’m playing dogcatcher. Banner and Shine are chasing the woman who started the fire.”

  “Playing? Jesus, woman, get in the car.”

  “No time.” She spoke between breaths. “They’re on the next street over. I’ll cut across yards. Don’t want her getting away.” Frankie felt every single one of her aches from last night—did she ever!—but she kept going. Gabe wasn’t going to stop her from finally finishing this.

  Speeding up, he passed her, then turned the SUV, so it blocked the road.

  No avoiding him now.

  “Get in the goddam car,” he said.

  Can a man whisper, yet shout at the same time? Apparently.

  Frankie got in the car.

  Tires churned as he goosed the accelerator. Gabe stuck his head out the window, following the dogs by sound. They weren’t hard to track. Shine had a good set of lungs on her and so, Frankie discovered, did Banner when he got aroused. A deep, satisfying strong tone.

  The SUV swept around the next corner.

  Gabe stomped hard on the brakes, jerking Frankie forward. Only his out-flung arm stopped her collision with the windshield. She hardly noticed because there, caught in the beam of the SUV’s headlights, a woman stood pressed against the side of a sleek black car, trying to get the door open.

  Banner led the charge against her, although as far as Frankie could tell, he never set tooth on the woman. Every time she reached for the handle, he pounced, so she never quite succeeded in sliding inside. The woman shrieked curses at him, which only intensified the Samoyed’s efforts.

  Shine did her part by keeping the woman flustered, jumping, barking, and running circles around the woman’s feet. The woman kicked repeatedly at the bichon, Shine mostly avoiding the size-eight ballet flats. Only once did one catch her under the belly, sending her tumbling.

  Undeterred, the bichon bounced up and went back to work.

  Ballet flats, hah. Call them sneaking-around shoes. Home-invasion shoes. Quite different from stilettos, for sure. Frankie almost laughed at the spectacle. Almost.

  Porch lights flipped on along the street. Front doors opened a crack, then widened, and heads appeared. A couple men started down their walk. One woman, braver, or more foolhardy than the rest, came out carrying a shotgun in the crook of her arm. It appeared she knew quite well how to use it.

  Frankie squinted as the woman stood under a yard light. Hah! She knew how to shoot, all right. It was old Mrs. Breeden, famous for once shooting a burglar breaking into the family grocery store. Killed him and never expressed a word of regret.

  Gabe turned his spotlight onto Banner’s prisoner. He got out.

  “Stay here,” he ordered Frankie.

  Stay here? Was he crazy?

  Before he finished speaking Frankie was ahead of him, racing toward the dogs and Alexis Barwick. She’d seen what Gabe either hadn’t or had chosen to ignore. The attorney somehow had managed to evade Banner long enough to reach through her car’s open window and retrieve an automatic pistol.

  For some reason, she didn’t shoot. Maybe because of the spectators gawking at her and the dogs. Maybe the safety was on, and she forgot how to release it.

  But she did bring the pistol barrel down on Banner, missing his skull and striking his withers. Banner howled his fear and pain, but he kept coming.

  And so did Frankie.

  The last six feet she went completely airborne. A flying tackle brought her close enough to grab the taller woman around the waist.

  The wind went out of Alexis Barwick as Frankie dragged her to the ground. Frankie landed on top, taking great pleasure in wallowing the attorney and her designer suit into the grit of the road. Skirt above her thighs, Barwick beat at Frankie’s back with the pistol.

  Frankie grunted under the blows, but the tackle served to blunt some of the larger woman’s force. The blows lacked momentum.

  Barwick shrieked her rage, which is when Frankie slammed a righteous fist into the side of her face.

  Damn! That was fun. She did it again.

  The woman folded like a hand of throwaway cards. The pistol sagged in her hand before someone—Gabe—snatched it away.

  Frankie, a trickle of blood running into her left eye where the cut had been reopened, looked up to find him standing over them, his own weapon drawn, a slight smile on his face.

  “Bet that felt good,” he said softly, so she was the only one to hear. “I got this. You can let go now.”
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br />   Frankie grinned. “It did feel good.”

  But then Gabe had to help Frankie up, the fury running through her so hot and wild she was trembling with it as she stepped away.

  Hawkesfordians gawked like spectators watching gladiators in an old Roman arena. Mrs. Breeden remained by the gate into her yard, head cocked like an aged eagle, her shotgun ready for action.

  Holstering his weapon, Gabe stilled Shine with a quiet word. Frankie’s soft whistle brought Banner, unhurt after all, prancing to her, and of course, the bichon followed along. Frankie knelt, put her arms around the Samoyed’s neck, and hugged him. “Good brave boy,” she whispered and gathered Shine into the circle. “Good girl.”

  Alexis Barwick lunged to her feet, awkward and cursing a blue streak. Reaching behind her, she fumbled with the Mercedes’ door as if she thought Gabe would let her flee.

  Not so. “You stay where you are.” Gabe held the car door closed. “Turn around and put your hands on the fender.”

  Ms. Barwick turned around all right, but it was into Gabe’s face. “I won’t. This is harassment. I’ll have those damn vicious dogs killed. I’ll have this woman jailed. I’ll have your badge. You have no right—”

  Gabe interrupted the tirade, his voice as soothing as cocoa. “Ms. Barwick, you are under arrest for the murders of Howie St. James and Denise Rider. Also for the attempted murder of Marc Schillinger and Frankie McGill, as well as a double count of arson. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few more charges come to light before this night is over.”

  The woman clawed at his hand where it pressed against the door.

  He launched into the Miranda rights spiel. “You have the right to remain silent. If—”

  “I never touched any of those people,” Alexis screamed as Gabe caught one diamond-laden hand an instant before it struck him. With a smooth, practiced motion, he wrenched her arms back and clipped plastic cuffs around her wrists.

  “That wasn’t me. You know it wasn’t,” Ms. Barwick yelled, twisting and fighting the cuffs like a demented thing. “This is all a lie. It was Darryl Holland. He did it. He killed those people. You’re hurting me. This is police brutality. You’re nothing but a small town errand boy. I own the judges in this state. You’ll never convict me, understand? Never. Nobody will believe you, do you hear me?”

  Frankie rather thought everyone heard her as she pretty much drowned out Gabe’s reading of her rights. No big deal. She was quite sure Ms. Barwick knew the statement by heart anyway.

  And Ms. Barwick was badly mistaken if she really thought she’d get out of this free as the wind. Gabe was a good policeman. He’d have evidence tying up all the loose ends, whatever they might be.

  And Frankie’s own eye witness account would count for something.

  Gabe practically had to carry Ms. Barwick to his SUV. Practically had to lift her into the back seat. The woman never ceased her clamor the whole time.

  He smiled at Frankie, who still squatted beside her dogs. “Got ’er.”

  “Sure do.”

  “Can you walk home from here?”

  She glanced around, finally becoming aware that she was in her jammies and barefoot. And her feet damn well hurt from running over gravel she hadn’t felt in the jazzed adrenaline rush of rage and fear. Was that blood oozing from the stump where toes used to be? Jeez! What a trip.

  Well, she was used to pain. “Sure. But you’d better stop by the house anyway.”

  “No need. Karl will have the fire out by now. I don’t think it got much of a start.”

  “I hope you’re right. The thing is, the last time I saw Darryl, he was laid out unconscious on my bedroom floor. You might want to do something with him after EMS gets done treating his wounds.”

  “On your bedroom—Darryl’s—” Gabe’s jaw dropped the least little bit. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Frankie couldn’t help preening. “Broken arm, a little lump on the head. Nothing much.”

  Gabe opened the passenger door for her. “Guess you don’t have to walk after all.”

  He was laughing as she and the dogs piled in, laughing as they started off. He hadn’t quit by the time they pulled up beside the pumper truck parked in front of her—their—house.

  They found one of the volunteer firemen in charge of the garden hose, dousing the charred porch while another man leaned on a shovel and watched.

  Oh, yeah. And there was Karl, standing guard over a dazed-looking Darryl who lay strapped to a stretcher with Lew kneeling beside him.

  “Hey, Gabe,” Karl yelled, coming to meet them. “Look what I found.”

  Chapter 27

  Frankie opened her eyes to find Gabe sitting on the edge of the bed. He had Shine on his lap and was rubbing Banner’s back with a barefoot. The dogs basked in satisfaction under his attention.

  Outside, the sun blazed a path through the sky, shone through the bedroom window, and bathed the room in morning light. And she wasn’t afraid. Nervous to find Gabe so close, but not afraid. And not screaming. In fact, she enjoyed looking at him.

  “How are your feet?” he asked when he saw she was awake.

  Wiggling them under the covers, she found they still moved. “Guess I’ll know when they hit the floor.”

  He smiled, his hazel eyes warm. “Guess you will.”

  The window, open to let the smell of smoke from the burned porch—which called for a total replacement—dissipate overnight, allowed in the cheerful singing of some kind of bird.

  Frankie had never been good at distinguishing varieties of birds, but she liked this one’s song.

  Scooted herself up against the headboard, she made sure the sheet demurely covered her lap. Kind of wasted effort, considering she’d been running up and down the street during the night wearing these self-same pajamas. Or T-shirt and shorts. Whatever you wanted to call them. It was just that the top was a little big and showed a little more than she normally exposed.

  “Got everything sewed up?” she asked Gabe brightly, adjusting the top since he didn’t seem adverse to peeking.

  “Enough to hold our two suspects in jail. Darryl is talking his head off, hoping to catch a break, and Ms. Barwick is still protesting her innocence.”

  Frankie couldn’t help worrying. “Do you think her muckety-muck friends will get the charges dropped?”

  “Not a chance. The evidence, along with Darryl’s testimony, has her pretty well sewed up. She may find those friends prefer to disassociate themselves from her.” He gave Shine another pat and set her on the floor. “And I’ve got a confession to make.”

  She stared at him, noting the tired lines around his eyes, the grim set to his mouth, the slight slump of his shoulders. He must not have been up for long⏤if he’d even been to bed⏤because his hair was still damp from the shower. He wore one of his ubiquitous T-shirts and Levis.

  “What is it?” She tried a smile. “Should I ‘gird my loins’ so to speak?”

  He looked away. “Not you, but maybe I should.”

  A sudden fear gnawed at her subconscious. “Marc... Is he all right? He’s not—”

  “No, no,” he hushed her. “Marc’s okay. I checked with the hospital this morning. Pending his physician’s check-up, he’ll probably be released this afternoon.”

  “Thank God.” Frankie closed her eyes and went limp for a moment. “One thing off my mind. So what’s your confession?”

  He inhaled like a mammoth sea creature before a deep dive and, abruptly standing, headed for the door. “On the other hand, I think you’d better get dressed and meet me downstairs for coffee.”

  With Gabe so grim, alarm replaced any relief Frankie previously felt. She swung her feet out from under the sheet, uncaring of their bruised and admittedly filthy condition. “All right. Give me five minutes.”

  The minutes edged nearer to fifteen before she found herself ready to face whatever had Gabe all hot and bothered. The warm water from her shower felt too good to cut short, and then there was her hair to dry, her makeup to pu
t on. And Frankie really did feel she needed the makeup. Something to bolster her self-image and cover a bit of the damage done to her face.

  After donning a pair of her new jeans and a bright, aqua-colored tank that went well with her dark hair and eyes, she made her way to the kitchen. Still barefoot, because every cut and bruise on her feet rose up in protest. But she was done hiding her foot. It was part of her. Deal with it.

  Anyway, she didn’t own a pair of shoes her feet would fit into in their present condition.

  A cup of coffee already marked her place at the table, fragrant steam rising from its depths. Gabe leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping from his cup as if it needed all his concentration.

  Or maybe not quite all.

  “I see you can walk,” he said.

  “Sure. Hurts, though.”

  “I imagine.”

  What in the world was the matter with him? In every conversation, they’d ever had he’d been decisive. Upbeat. Grim, sometimes, but never so damned inconsequential.

  Sitting at the table as much to take a load off her tortured feet as for any other reason, Frankie picked up her coffee and drank. A mellow roast, it tasted just as good as it smelled.

  “Confession about what?” she asked as though the last quarter hour had never occurred.

  Gabe seemed uncomfortable as if he didn’t like where this conversation would lead. “First, you should know Ms. Barwick’s involvement, in this case, came as no surprise. Not after we learned, thanks to you and Dr. Kelly, about Dr. Muncie’s scheme of billing insurance companies and the federal government for services he never rendered. Denise Rider worked for the doctor for a couple years. She kept the books for his practice. Both sets of books. She also had an affair with him. When the affair ended, so did her employment. That’s when she started blackmailing him.”

  Frankie nodded. “I thought it might be something like that.”

  He nodded too. “When you found the Smoke Signals disc, it helped shorten the investigation. Motive became clear. Apparently, she was cleaning him out, taking too much of his profit. Denise had bank accounts in sums that amounted to almost half of what Dr. Muncie took in with his fraudulent billing these last three years.”