Emily waved to her as the EMTs loaded her into the vehicle. “You fainted from shock. You need medical attention. I’ll meet you at the hospital. Try to be good, will you?”
“You two could have been killed,” said Lewis. “I think the perp would have finished what he started if it hadn’t been for Green driving up and ruining his plans. I’ve got my men checking the land between here and the road.”
“If your fugitive knows this terrain, you won’t find him. He’ll hole up somewhere in that swamp or work his way around it to the west. That’s a lot of territory to cover with a few men,” said Green.
Except for catching Clara when she fainted, Detective Lewis hadn’t taken his eyes off Green since he arrived. “I like your story, Donald, unless you were trying to put a scare into these two,” Lewis said.
Emily wondered about that, too. Donald always seemed to be in on whatever criminal activity happened recently. The stolen boat, the discovery of blood on it, fishing Fat Eddie’s body out of the river, and scaring or saving Emily and Clara. What was his game? Or was there one? Clara said his rifle hadn’t been fired. The man was an enigma.
Green shook his head as if Lewis’s words were more disappointing than a bare hook in a bass tournament. As Green opened his mouth to make a comment, Lewis’ cell phone rang. He held up his finger to signal Green to hold what he was going to say, listened for a minute, then walked off to take the call.
“Well, where the hell is he?” Lewis spoke loudly enough that both Green and Emily heard him. “He’s supposed to be on for Detective Stiles who’s taking maternity leave. I need him here and now.” Lewis flipped the phone shut.
“Damn Toby.” He muttered the words under his breath, but had moved back toward Emily so she heard his comment.
“He was impersonating you the night of Davey’s death,” she said.
“He wasn’t impersonating anyone.” Lewis’ voice had a snappish quality to it.
“Sorry,” said Emily.
“Can I go now or are we going to do that down-to-the-station thing you do so well?” asked Green. “I’ve got to get up early tomorrow. The annual bass tournament begins at six.”
“Get out of here,” said Lewis. “But don’t . . .”
“Don’t leave the county. I know. And me with a brand new passport.” Green started his truck and backed onto the road. Emily watched as he rolled down his window before he shifted into drive. “Oh, that reminds me. I won’t be in for a couple of days what with the tournament and all.” He waved to her and sped off.
“Oh, damn,” said Emily.
“Problems?” asked Lewis.
“The same as you have. Lack of manpower. With Clara injured and Donald off to catch fish, I’m missing a bartender or a manager, take your pick. Regardless, it means I’m the only one working the bar for the next few days.”
Emily’s cell called out with its salsa ring.
“Hi. It’s me. Naomi. I got back from the coast and you weren’t here. Is everything okay?”
“Fine, honey.” Emily paused and thought for a second. Oh, why the hell not. “Would you like a job?”
Emily picked up a still annoyed and uncooperative Clara from the emergency room several hours later. “I don’t need all these pain meds, and I can walk out of here. Get away from me with that wheelchair.”
Hap walked through the trauma center doors with Sadie in tow.
“Now you listen to me, little girl,” he said. “You do what these folks say and save the sass for later.”
Emily stifled a laugh. Little girl, indeed. Why, she’s five inches taller, outweighs him by twenty pounds, and hasn’t even begun the diatribe I know she’s fostering inside.
But to Emily’s surprise, Clara grabbed his hand and looked down at her father with the same blue eyes as his.
“Daddy,” she said. Tears rolled down her cheeks, their path interrupted by the stitches and butterfly dressings placed over her cuts.
“It’s okay, baby. You’ve had a rough couple of weeks. Now Emily’s going to take you to her place. You know I can’t take care of you and you need some help with your arm in a sling, so I’m sure Emily won’t mind, will you?” He looked at Emily who moved her head up and down.
Oh, what the hell, she thought. I might as well be running a boarding house.
Once in the passenger’s seat of the car, Clara wiped away her tears with her good hand and stared straight ahead.
“We’ll stop at your place and I’ll run in and grab some clothes and a toothbrush and comb for you,” said Emily. She took her eyes off the road for a moment and looked at her friend. Clara said nothing and continued to stare straight ahead.
“You want me to get anything else while I’m there? Cosmetics, books to read, bath beads, shampoo, your tongue?” Emily asked.
Still Clara said nothing. Emily slowed the car as they passed under a street light to get a better look at her friend.
“Clara?”
“Pull over a minute, would you?”
Emily steered the car to the curb, put it in park, and scanned the dark for police cruisers who might find two women parked on the street at four in the morning odd.
“Okay,” said Clara, “about that crying thing back there with Dad . . . It must have been the shot they gave me when they stitched me up. It’s not what Dad said. I handle these things very well, unless they pump me full of drugs.”
“It was a little Novocain, a local.”
Clara looked at her friend, exasperated. “Could you let me have this one fantasy? It was embarrassing. I never cry.”
“Oh, I know what you mean. They must have given you an overdose of the local or they mixed it up with another drug, one that makes you cry.”
Clara checked Emily’s expression to make certain she wasn’t being sarcastic. Emily’s look was guileless, but then, Emily was the master of innocence when she wanted.
“Do you want to register a complaint with the hospital, sue them or something?” asked Emily.
“Don’t push it, girl.”
The two of them continued to sit in the darkness. Emily rolled down her window and let in the night air.
“I sometimes forget how wonderful it is to be here. When the night is dark with no moon like now, I feel as if I’m being wrapped in velvet, warm, soft velvet. There’s nothing like this in the north.”
“Hmmm,” said Clara as if in agreement. “There is something else you can get me while we’re at my house.”
Emily started the engine and looked at her friend with curiosity. “Yes?”
“I might find a use for several of my guns.”
“Not in my place.” said Emily.
“I’m not going to use them in the house. Unless it’s necessary. Besides with this bum arm, I’m going to have to teach you to shoot. Maybe Naomi too.”
Oh good, thought Emily, now I’m rooming with Annie Oakley.
“No, I’ll take the pull-out,” said Clara. “You and Naomi can stay put in your room, Darren in the guest room, and me here.” She pointed to the couch.
Naomi, Emily, and Clara stood in the living room of Emily’s park model and discussed the sleeping arrangements. The conversation had gone on for several minutes. Someone rapped on the front door.
“Hi. It’s me, Vicki. I heard you pull in and then saw your lights on. What’s up?” Her glance ran up and down Clara first, then turned to Emily. “The two of you look like you tangled with barbed wire, but you, Clara, you must have been bundled in it and thrown in the back of a truck.”
“Naw. It wasn’t as bad as that. Someone shot at us, that’s all,” Clara said.
Since Clara’s comment necessitated their telling Vicki all about the incident at the club, Emily decided to make coffee. Vicki scuttled back home for some rolls she had bought at the store. Soon the four women were sitting around Emily’s table and discussing the evening.
“What are you going to do?” asked Vicki. Her facial expression changed from horror to excitement and back again.
“Sleep,” said Emily. She stretched her arms and yawned. “If we can figure out where.”
“Someone can stay at my place,” said Vicki. “My husband is usually out on the course by eight every morning. He’ll never even notice if there’s anyone else in the house.”
“Thanks, Vicki, but there’s plenty of room here. People will need to be flexible and move around a bit,” Emily said.
After Vicki left, Clara remained immovable when it came to the couch. When she insisted that she wouldn’t stay unless she got the couch, Emily relented, opened it for her, and she and Naomi headed for the back bedroom.
As tired as she was, Emily remained awake, waiting for Darren’s return. By six in the morning, he hadn’t shown up. Emily tiptoed out to the living room to check on Clara.
“I’m still awake, waiting for Darren, like you.” Clara swept her hand through her tangled curls. “He’s a resourceful young man, but he’s also one for finding trouble, like Eddie.”
“Like father, like son?” said Emily, then regretted saying it. “I didn’t mean to imply he’d end up in prison like his dad.”
“Never mind. I wonder what he’s gotten himself into this time. I hate to admit it, but the kid’s not very reliable. He’s lost more jobs than I’ve applied for. I’m sorry to cause you all this worry.” Clara rolled over, but Emily didn’t believe she was sleeping. Emily dragged herself back to the king-sized bed and Naomi’s soft snoring.
At eight in the morning, Emily awoke to the smell of coffee brewing. Naomi slept curled in a tight ball beside her. Who made the coffee?
“I’m in the other bedroom,” said Clara.
Emily peeked in on her. “How did you manage the coffee pot?” she asked.
Clara had Darren’s backpack out on the bed and was searching through it with her good hand, pulling items out of the zippered pockets and dumping them onto the bed.
“Vicki came over and did the coffee. Also offered to make breakfast, but I said we’d manage with toast.” Clara looked up at Emily. “Did I do wrong? Were you wanting pancakes, sausage, and grits?”
Emily shook her head and sat down in the desk chair next to the bed.
“I know I’m being nosy, but I thought maybe I could get some sense of what Darren’s up to. I haven’t kept a close eye on his movements and don’t know much about his friends.”
“I don’t know much about Naomi’s life either,” said Emily.
“You haven’t been her mother all these years. You’ve got an excuse. As for me, I damn well gave up on him. Not a very parental thing to do. I was a lousy mother.”
“Well, I don’t mean to sound judgmental about your recently departed ex, but he certainly wasn’t much of a father to Darren, was he?”
“Of course not. Why would he be?” asked Clara. She pulled a stack of papers from one of the pockets and began to go through them.
“Why wouldn’t he be?” asked Emily. She was confused at her friend’s attitude toward Daren’s father.
“Oh, well, I mean, how could he be any kind of a role model for the kid off in prison most of the time, and, when he was home, he planned most of the escapades that would land him right back in jail.” Clara continued to rifle through the papers. “What’s this?”
“What?”
Clara held up a sheet with a seal impressed onto it. “An official copy of his birth certificate. Now why would he want that? Did he talk to you about what he was doing? Or when he got this?” Clara asked.
She threw the paper onto the bed and then began to dump items out of the backpack onto the floor, scratching through the pile with her good hand like a one-armed squirrel frantic to dig up an acorn in deep snow.
Emily shook her head while she watched Clara search through the meager collection of Darren’s possessions: a razor, shaving cream, a lighter, some store receipts, and a half-pint of cheap gin.
“I know he left early for work some days. He usually took the bus, but I think several days he got a ride into town with one of his friends. Maybe they dropped him at the courthouse.” Emily was puzzled about why Darren would need a copy of the birth certificate too, but not as concerned as Clara seemed to be.
“Do you know what friend?” she asked.
Emily shook her head no. “Maybe he was applying for a passport.”
Clara looked up at Emily, seemed to take measure of her, and for a moment Emily thought Clara had something she was going to share with Emily, something important. Then her expression became shadowed.
“It’s better you not know. I hope the fool didn’t let anybody else in on this.” Clara replaced the document, tossed the backpack onto the bed, and got up. “There’s coffee and I can sure use a cup.”
CHAPTER 15
Detective Lewis sat at his desk, his eyes heavy with weariness from the long night he had put in searching roads that intersected with the Club Road, scouring the fields adjacent to the course, and directing his men to set up a roadblock on the main highway. They had found nothing. He knew they wouldn’t. Every four-wheel-drive vehicle in the county must have driven that area in the last few days, either hunting coyote or using the clubhouse road to access the isolated swamps to the west. His men rousted drivers and passengers from their trucks and sent high school couples and good old boys with hooch in paper bags home to their beds.
They confiscated plenty of rifles, but none that had been fired recently. Nobody they interviewed had spotted a truck traveling through the area at a high rate of speed. But then, how observant can a bunch of tipsy cowboys and teenage lovers be at that hours, Lewis asked himself.
He heard footsteps outside his office. They didn’t slow at his door, but continued on. A door closed. Toby. Lewis jumped up and ran down the hall, throwing open the door at the end.
“Where the hell were you tonight?” He yelled at Toby Walker as he bent over and took a shot at his spit can on the floor next to the desk. Toby dug into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his mouth, then glanced up at Lewis, a look of surprise on his fat, sweaty face.
“I was working.” He slipped the brown stained handkerchief back into his pocket.
Lewis tried to hide his disgust at Toby’s tobacco habit. He knew everyone in the station had complained to the police captain, Aaron Worley, about the chewing and spitting. Captain Worley and Toby went way back to grade school days so the only concession he would make to the near mutiny of his officers was to move Toby to the smallest office in the building and insist he keep the spit can there. No one ever went to Toby’s office, not even Worley. Only rage at Toby’s absence at the crime scene propelled Lewis into Toby’s den tonight.
“Working where?” asked Lewis. “I needed you out there at the course, helping me at the scene, or at least taking part in the search.”
“I figured you would handle the scene so I searched the east range. When I got to the course most of the men headed for the swamps. I knew you’d want me to take up the slack so I followed Bobby Aldrich, who headed toward the rodeo grounds.” Toby tilted his chair backward and propped one polyester clad leg on his desk.
“Bobby never told me you were at the rodeo grounds with him,” said Lewis.
“Wasn’t. I saw a car pull out of the grounds and head into town, so I followed it.”
“And?”
“Nothing. Kids where they shouldn’t be.” Toby turned his head to one side and spat. It hit the outside of the can and the dark juice ran down onto the floor.
“And you didn’t think you should check with me about what needed to be done before you took off, and you didn’t let me know what you found?”
“I’m a detective here too. I may be your partner until Detective Stiles pops that kid, but I have as much say in what happens on a case as you do.”
“What you don’t get, Toby, is that partner implies cooperation, sharing. But you probably don’t understand that.”
Toby slid his chair back onto its front legs with a bang. “Maybe we should take our disagreement to the captain when he co
mes in to work.”
“Go right ahead. I’m beat. I’m going home for a few hours of sleep. You can tell Captain Worley how you’re on the job.” Lewis walked out, slamming the door behind him. He gulped a lungful of air once in the hallway, aware he had been taking shallow breaths while in Toby’s office. The place stank. He smiled to himself, pleased that he had maneuvered Toby front and center on the case while he went home to rest. He wondered how long it would take Toby to figure out what he’d done.
He did need some shut eye, no question about that. The hours he’d been putting in since Davey’s murder had given him little time to eat, much less get some sleep. He blinked as the sunlight hit his face at the station door. Must be after eight in the morning, he thought. He checked his watch. Nine-fifteen. His cell rang.
“Lewis here. Yep. Fine. Yep.” He flipped the cell closed. Now he had two murders on his hands. The medical examiner found a bullet hole in the back of Fat Eddie’s head. The wound wasn’t obvious when they pulled him out of the river because of the damage done to the corpse by the water and the gators. A rifle, a twenty-two, the same kind of weapon that had been used to take out the window last night at the golf course.
Lewis now felt confident the target was Clara, not Emily. He was also certain the two murders were connected. He didn’t get the connection now, but something tickled his brain cells. Some link between Clara, her husband, and the Davey family, something that went way back. He’d have to take a look at his old high school year books when he got home. Correction. He’d look at them after he got some sleep.
***
Two days later, Clara paced up and down Emily’s living room, gesturing angrily with her good arm while she flopped the arm in the sling up and down like a duck’s wing.
“Now I’m mad, furious really. Where is that boy? Hasn’t been at work for the past two days and no word from him. And this afternoon is Eddie’s funeral. He’s always been irresponsible, but not this bad.”
Clara was demonstrating her usual bravado, because Emily thought Clara was more worried, scared even, than she was mad. Emily was concerned about Darren’s absence too. With the murder, the death of Fat Eddie, and the shooting at the club, Emily felt as if the bad guys, whoever they were, were closing in on her and Clara.
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