by Lakota Grace
Grabbing a can opener from a drawer, I opened one can, plopped some in a dish and placed it on the floor. Then I rinsed out the cat’s water dish and poured her some fresh. Not her fault I'd had a lousy day. She ate daintily, the magnificent tail straight in the air, waving back and forth like a plumed fan.
Better not push the armistice. Tomorrow faced another dawn we'd have to break together since she needed the medication twice a day. Cat box looked passable—I’d clean it tomorrow.
I went out the front door, making sure all three locks were secure. Before I headed back to the sheriff’s office in Mingus, I dialed the hospital. The nurses' station gave me an update on Shepherd—no major changes, doing as well as expected, check back in the morning.
I negotiated the series of roundabouts on Highway 89A until the last one at Cement Plant Road. There, I circled three-quarters around and headed up the hill to Mingus.
It was after midnight and the roads were still when I rounded the last hairpin into town. Once the day-tripping tourists left, most of the town retired for the night. There were only a few pedestrians straggling home from the bars when I pulled into my parking space and climbed the stairs to my studio apartment.
There, I made coffee, poured some into a mug and walked onto the balcony. My breath formed vapor puffs in the cold moonlight. Within minutes the bitter wind penetrated my shirt, and I returned to the warmth of the apartment. I scribbled notes on the Nettle family to satisfy Shepherd the next morning, put some more iodine on the Fluffy scratches, and headed to bed.
My plan to sleep late the next morning was jinxed when the phone summoned me hours before daybreak.
Encounter with a Wild Cat
10
I GROANED AND OPENED my cell phone to see a text message from Shepherd. “Feed Fluffy. Bring me some clothes.” He must be feeling better. Or tired of hospital chow already.
“On it,” I texted him back. The way I felt this morning, I didn’t know if I could handle a phone that was brighter than I was.
After a quick shower, I stripped the Band-Aids off the Fluffy wounds and put on new ones. I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and then stopped by the station to change into a fresh uniform compliments of the cleaners. Even if it was Saturday, I intended to look official driving the SUV. Cop weeks never seem to end, especially working with a partner like Shepherd.
On the drive down the hill to Shepherd’s house, I reviewed what I needed, to deal with the cat. My heavy gloves were in the SUV storage compartment, but maybe a bribe would be a good idea, too. The on-duty clerk at the Dollar Store recommended a toy mouse and some cat treats. Chlorophyll flavored, she said, guaranteed irresistible. One way or another, the cat and I would come to an understanding.
When I reached Shepherd’s guest house, I gathered my equipment and managed to open all three locks without dropping anything. Fluffy greeted me when I opened the door, tail waving gently in the breeze, all past indiscretions forgiven. Short memory, that cat. Or maybe she was just a day person, not a night owl. Could a cat be an owl? No matter.
I unwrapped the toy mouse and tossed it to her. She sniffed it once and ignored it. Perhaps I’d have better luck with cat treats? I lobbed one her direction and Fluffy tried to bury it. Not that I blamed her. They smelled like dead silage to me, too.
That left the main event. No reason to bother with the “Here, Kitty” routine. I might as well be making a peace sign to a street rioter. I yanked open the refrigerator with one hand, snatched the meds and slammed the door shut with my hip. Hands gloved up and holding a heavy towel at the ready, I waited until Fluffy’s back was turned and grabbed her.
I hoisted the Fluffy-in-towel bundle onto the kitchen counter. Holding the bundle secure with my elbow, I jerked one glove off with my teeth, filled the syringe and stuffed the meds down her throat. Total time, beginning to end, ninety seconds. I pumped my fist in the air. Yes! If I ever washed out as a cop I could apply to be a Vet Tech.
Fluffy shook her head once and jumped off the counter. She rubbed a layer of fur on my clean uniform pant leg, stroking back and forth. Breakfast time. I dumped new cat food in her dish, changed the water next to it, and rehung the towel I’d used to subdue her. Cleaned the cat box.
Shepherd had asked for clothes. I went into the bedroom, opened dresser drawers and pulled out socks, underwear, and a T-shirt. What about pants? With that leg, he couldn't wear straight blue jeans. I settled on a pair of pajama bottoms, added some slippers and a straight razor from the bathroom.
I stuffed them all in a sports bag I found in the bedroom and grabbed a jacket from the hall closet for the cold day ahead. When I entered the living room, Fluffy was batting at the mouse. She saw me watching and stalked off, twitching her plume tail. So much for bonding-with-cat. I tried.
Half an hour later I entered the medical center and found Shepherd’s new room. When I arrived at his door to present the completed paperwork, his bed was cranked up full. Somebody had found him some reading glasses and he was working crossword puzzles, in pen. Definitely feeling better. I handed him the Nettle incident report and the clothes.
He dumped the bag of clothes on the floor and grabbed for the file like someone had given him a special puzzle book. “Ah, the Nettles.” He scanned through the pages before setting them aside for later. Then he inspected me over the glasses. “Nice Band-Aids. Cat fur on those pants, though. Packing tape always works for me.”
I looked at him.
He continued. “Didn’t thank you properly yesterday. Otis Stroud may be among the missing, but I've still got the leg.”
“No surgery?”
“Skated by that one. I'll look like Frankenstein when I take all this off, though. Forty-eight stitches.” He patted his leg, swathed in bandages from ankle to knee, a badge of honor. I had to admit—my cat scratches didn’t compare to that magnificence.
“Due to be released this afternoon,” he said. “Can't drive for a while, though.”
That would break the heart of our department’s entry for NASCAR.
“Pick me up here about two this afternoon,” he ordered.
“Sure. Take you home then?”
“No, to the office. Haven't missed a day of work in thirty years, not starting now.”
Less than twenty-four hours after a life-threatening emergency, and he was going back to work. Well, it was his life, not mine.
“You put out that BOLO for Otis?”
“Not yet. Plan to when I go in to work.”
“Do that, then call the medical examiner's office—Somebody should be there—That place never closes—If they haven't done the autopsy on Cal Nettle yet, put their asses in gear—Your scuba buddies found anything more out there?—Call them—Howard Nettle back in town yet?—Check on his whereabouts—And contact Ruby Mae, see what funeral arrangements she’s making—we'll want to attend.” He paused for breath.
The man was a tap-dancing bunny rabbit.
“You make a note of all that?” he asked.
I tapped my head. “Up here.”
“See you this afternoon. Two o'clock, then, don't forget. Thanks for feeding Fluffy.” He picked up his puzzle book, the meeting over. I disappeared before he thought of something else for me to do.
I left the hospital and headed for Mingus. Half-way up the hill, my phone beeped with a text from Shepherd. I pulled to the side of the road and glanced at it. “Call your counselor?”
I’d ignore that message. Didn’t need the added stress of a counseling session while I juggled my job and Shepherd’s, too. None of his business, anyway. It would have to wait. The counselor would probably understand. What excuse hadn’t I used yet with her?
Before I could pull back on the road, another text arrived: “Get me a cane.” I shook my head, turned off my phone and drove the rest of the way to Mingus in uninterrupted silence. I was done playing answering machine for Shepherd’s job-withdrawal anxieties.
***
THE AROMA OF FRESH COFFEE hit me when I walked in the door
. Ben was working, making up hours for his out-of-office personal time. He probably needed the money. He was back living with his uncle, Armor Brancussi, and the guy put the arm on Ben for spare cash whenever he could. Not easy for Ben, but he seemed to manage.
He gave me a high-five as I went back to my office, mug in hand. He'd even made a paper sign for my desk, “Acting Deputy-in-Charge, Mingus Sheriff's Department.”
Shoes propped on the edge of the desk, I sipped the brew pensively, Zen-like. Life was good without Shepherd here to pickle up the works.
When I'd accumulated enough calming thoughts to write a self-help book, I fished in my pocket, and slowly withdrew my cell phone. I examined its gray perfection, turned it on, and set it quietly on my desk. It vibrated off the desktop and into the trashcan. I dropped my feet to the floor and fished it out. The caller ID said “Janny Nettle.”
“Hi, Janny. Hold a minute.” I put my hand over the phone and hollered to Ben. “Borrow HT's truck and drive to Walgreen's, buy a cane for Shepherd. Use this.” I flipped him the office charge card. He gave me a mock salute and disappeared out the door. I crossed the first item off the Shepherd to-do list. When Ben got back, I'd assign him another. No need to waste a good assistant.
“Yes?” I said to Janny.
“Want to apologize for taking the long way around to the still yesterday,” she said. “Momma said I had to do it. Is Shepherd okay?”
“Not good. He could have lost a leg with that maneuver, Janny. Where's your Uncle Otis?”
She skated right past that one. “Momma's planning the funeral. When will they release Daddy's body?”
“Soon, I think. I'll check for you.” Part of my FLO responsibilities. Efficient Family Liaison Officer, that's me.
“We're lining up the pallbearers. Howard's coming up today from Phoenix.”
I made another check on my mental Shepherd to-do list. Now we knew when Howard Nettle was arriving. My partner would be pleased.
Janny enumerated the pallbearers. “Ethan, and then Armor Brancussi and your granddad HT, that makes four, and... Shepherd. Would you talk to him for us? I know he's mad about that little accident yesterday, but Momma wants him to serve. He and Daddy go way back.”
Didn't realize Cal Nettle was such a founding father of the valley. But maybe so. It takes all kinds. “I'll give it a try. Can't guarantee, though. With Howard, that’s five. Who's your sixth?”
“Momma wants Uncle Otis to do it. He gives his word he'll turn himself in after the funeral.” She talked fast, getting it all out in one breath before I could interrupt.
Doubtful Shepherd would agree to that one, but he wasn't here. So, no need to put out a Be-On-the-Lookout for Otis just yet. I didn't know where he was now, but I knew where he'd be in the near future. That counted. I crossed him half off the list.
Janny didn't sound sad, more like she was planning a family reunion, which in a way it would be with Howard coming home. All the family together, even Cal, for the first time in years. I wondered if second almost-wife Darbie Granger would show. She wouldn't be that stupid, surely.
Funerals weren't my thing, but I said I’d attend, as much for Janny as for the late departed, and rang off. I made a note to talk to Shepherd about the arrangements.
On a roll, I phoned the medical examiners' office next. Shepherd had pegged that one right. Someone actually answered the phone. I groaned when I heard the voice. It was Sidney Morrison—Solemn Sidney, we called him. He could put a raven to sleep with the minute details of death he found so fascinating.
“Just finished the autopsy. Surprised you weren’t here to watch, Peg. Always fun to do a floater. First, you have to...”
My stomach heaved just thinking about it. “Never mind, I'll take your word for it. Did he drown?”
“No shoulder-girdle bruises, so nobody held him down. Some sand, silt, and weeds in pharynx and trachea, but not much in stomach or alveoli. I haven't done a diatom test on the bone marrow, but I imagine it would give us the same result.”
Just my luck. Solemn must be having a slow weekend and figured he’d got a live one on the hook when I called him. But I played along. “…So Cal Nettle was dead before he entered the water?”
“Seems like it,” he said.
“Cause of death, then?” Come on, guy, spit it out. What killed him?
“Massive blow to the back of the head. Caved that skull right in. We've dug out some wood fragments for lab testing. Somebody did not want that man alive.”
I knew a few folks who could fit that description. “What about the tox screen?”
“Waiting on it. Some interesting stomach contents, though. Milk and apricots within a couple of hours of death.”
Darbie's apricot bars. She had denied seeing Cal that day, even though Ethan assured me that she had. I kept reminding myself that witnesses—and suspects—lie. Even the nice ones.
Solemn read down his report. “On to the organs. Some indication of heart problems. Probably wouldn't have lived past sixty, that old ticker would have given out. Man had cirrhosis of the liver, too. Surprised he was still walking around. A heavy drinker?”
I thought of Cal Nettle’s distillery. And Ethan's tale of the drunken man’s hunt with the young coonhound. “Could be.”
“And here's something for you...” He’d kept the best until last. There was a chirp of triumph in his voice. “Man was riddled with cancer. He didn't have but weeks, maybe a month to live. Folks get impatient, sometimes. All they had to do was wait.”
It was a chilling thought. What would I do, if I had only months to live? Not something I wanted to dwell on. Every day, the old heart just keeps pumping away, and we ignore it. Until one day it doesn’t.
But what it boiled down to was that Cal was near death, and somebody killed him anyway. Somebody that knew about the cancer, or somebody that didn’t? Cal didn’t die of his disease like he would have in the normal order of things. Somebody hurried the process along, and I had to find out who.
I gave Solemn the name of the funeral home the family had chosen. He said he'd fax the complete report, and I hung up. More paper for my partner—knowing Solemn there’d be some heavy reading. That ought to make Shepherd ecstatic.
Next, I left a voice message for Rory Stevens, the scuba diver. Asked him in my politest voice whether they had found anything further. It was a formal call, nothing personal, just business. But that small voice in the back of my head was asking why I called Rory and not his partner. Never mind.
Zing. That did it for most of Shepherd’s list, and it was only eleven o'clock. Efficiency in action.
I called Ruby Mae and told her I had more questions. She invited me over for lunch, and I accepted. Plenty of time before I had to pick up Shepherd, and I'd scout out more information about the Nettle family along with the biscuits. The least I could do for almost-kin.
Planning the Funeral
11
WHEN I DROVE into the Nettle homestead, the dog Ethan called Reckless was waiting for me, his tail swinging in a wide arc. I peered at the house hoping for rescue, but no one emerged. Gritting my teeth, I opened the door and swung my legs out.
Before I could straighten, Reckless leaped and planted two muddy paws on my uniformed chest. Nice red valley mud. I brushed at it, but only succeeded in transferring terra cotta smears to my pants. Forget the vet technician option—my new career choice should be in dry-cleaning.
“Shoo! Go away now.” Ruby Mae appeared on the porch, and Reckless dropped to his haunches. She walked down the steps and took my hand. “Need to apologize. My brother Otis doesn’t always think things through. Wasn’t no reason to cause harm to anyone.” She dropped my hand, social obligations satisfied. “Lunch ready soon. Go fetch Ethan from the barn.”
I detoured by the front of the barn to check on the puppies. The seven red-gold youngsters had been moved to a makeshift puppy pen and tumbled over each other in their eagerness to reach me. Momma Red Sheba was nowhere in sight. They must be getting old eno
ugh for her to leave them. I leaned over the fence and cupped a soft head in my hand, ran my fingers along another's back, touched a third’s floppy ears. My puppy-love satisfied, I straightened and walked to the end of the barn.
Ethan was sharpening a mattock, that combination of adze and axe, the blade held in a metal vise smoothed by many years of hard use. The old ‘29 Ford pickup was missing. Otis staking a claim already? Wherever he was hiding out, it probably wasn't here.
“Hi, Ethan. Your mother says lunch is ready.”
“Be right with you.” He twirled the lever to unlock the vise, hung the mattock on the wall, and wiped his hands on a rag. Each action was precise, unhurried.
I surveyed the possible weapons on the wall. Axe handles, scythes, even a sledge or two. Wouldn't take much to kill his father and then hang the instrument back in plain view. I'd know more when I got the configuration of a likely weapon from the crime lab. Had Cal been drunk or sober when he died? Either way, somebody wanted him dead enough to bash his head in.
Ethan and I walked back to the house with Reckless nudging my hand every second step. Then Ethan sat in the living room while Ruby Mae set the table and I freshened up. A piece of stained glass set in the bathroom window reflected yellow and red patterns on the worn linoleum floor, the light bouncing off the mud on my uniform.
I moistened a rag and rubbed at the worst of the stains. The cracked mirror above the sink mocked my dirt-stained face and I wiped some red mud off my cheek, too. Reckless sure knew how to spread the love around.
Ruby Mae served us lunch at the same kitchen table as before. Ham, fresh bread for sandwiches, homemade pickles, peach preserves, and an apple dumpling cake for dessert. That woman could cook.
