“Let’s see the paperwork,” Darby said.
“I’ve got to dig around for the folder,” Brownell said, and headed off toward the spiral staircase.
It took a full fifteen minutes. Brownell appeared to be calmer when he returned with a file folder in hand.
Darby took his time looking through the file and handed it to Sam Bailey.
“I’m keeping that,” Brownell said, sounding pleased with himself. “Now, you can take me to court, I’ll bring it with me, and two lawyers, and the friend I was with on Saturday afternoon.”
“I just wanted the sheriff to witness what I saw,” Darby said. “I appreciate your cooperation.”
“I don’t need your appreciation,” Brownell said. “How about an apology instead? From both of you?”
“I don’t think so,” Darby said with a shrug.
“Nice seeing you again,” the Sheriff said. “Good luck with the house.”
They were on the highway heading back to Merchantsville when Darby finally spoke.
“Looks like I wasted your time,” he said. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem,” Sam Bailey said with a grin. “I’d never seen the inside of that house, and I’m just glad for that kid that he’s not being raised by Taylor Brownell.”
Kasey Hill’s funeral service was mercifully brief. The Wellstons had decided against bringing the children, but had Chloe and Jazz along with several out-of-town relatives to support them. At the graveside service, B.J. looked solemn while observing the gathered family and friends.
Holly looked exhausted. Roger dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. Jazz bawled. Chloe looked angry with the world, and uncomforted.
Back at the station, B.J. found LaKeisha reading the latest issue of the Laurel County Leader.
“I cannot believe her sister put an out-of-date picture in the paper,” she said to B.J. “It hardly looks like Kasey with that brown hair. I saw her last week and she had blond curls down to her shoulders, the same color as her little boy’s hair, like she’d dyed hers to match, except hers had streaks.”
B.J. remembered the same hair.
“When was this?” she asked.
“Last Wednesday or Thursday,” LaKeisha said, “In the grocery store parking lot. I thought I told you that. She and this old lady stopped right in the middle of the lane, so we couldn’t back out and they were just talking away, and I didn’t want to honk.”
“What old lady?”
“All I could see was white hair,” LaKeisha said. “Any way they were having a social occasion, and Tania said the old lady was showing Kasey something. I was about to get out of the car and ask them real nicely if they wouldn’t mind moving just a teensy bit, and then the little boy started hollerin’ and Kasey went on to the store.”
“Hmm,” B.J. said, trying to remember who was at the funeral with white hair, and then letting it go as the phone rang.
It was Darby.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said.
After he explained about Taylor Brownell, she sighed.
“I was hoping it was him,” she said. “I liked it so much that he wasn’t from here.”
Evergreen was starting to brown a pot roast for supper when Ingrid called.
“Has your Laurel County Leader been delivered yet?”
“I haven’t gone to look,” Evergreen asked. “Why?”
“There’s a big front page story on the murder,” Ingrid said.
“Laurel Grove’s on the front page of the Leader?” Evergreen asked. “Now that’s really news. Usually we just get into the obits and the engagement announcements.”
“Benton thinks they’re going to improve,” Ingrid said. “There’s a new owner. He says they sent a reporter to the last City Council meeting, so there’s a story inside about that. But, anyway there’s a big headline and a picture of Kasey Hill with her little boy, and the picture must have been taken a while ago because he looks more like he’s one than close to two. Oh, you’ll like this. It even has B.J. talking about the Sheltie helping save the little boy. She wants to locate the dog’s owner.”
“Ha!” Evergreen said. “Nobody owns Lady!”
As soon as they’d finished chatting, Evergreen went and found her paper, and brought it back to the kitchen table to take a look.
She barely saw the headline. Her eyes were focused on one thing—the face of the baby in the picture.
To some people, babies and small children looked alike, but not to Evergreen Tinsley. Her first thought was that she had seen this baby before. She had even held this child, she thought, closing her eyes and trying to recapture the memory. She had a long-ago notion of baby shoes polished white, and the smell of baby powder. She almost heard baby laughter, and then she lost it.
She hadn’t seen Logan Hill when she went to the house with the cookies, and didn’t remember ever laying eyes on him, but she knew he was almost two now and this picture was outdated.
Bo-Bear was in the picture too, looking fresh from the store. Kasey was wearing a blouse with ruffles and her hair was brown, which made her look a bit like her mother, Janie. Evergreen remembered clearly that Kasey’s hair was long, curly and blond when she’d last seen her at Chloe’s. It occurred to her the brown was probably Kasey’s natural color and that motherhood might have calmed the young woman down for a while. Maybe that was the Kasey that Holly wanted the world to see.
Back to the baby though. Where had she seen that child?
She closed her eyes again, but nothing came nothing came. Loki jumped onto the table and got an ear scratching as she read the story, which seemed to be quite accurate with comments from all the appropriate people.
She smiled when she came to the part about B.J.’s wanting to locate the owner of the Sheltie.
“How about that, Loki?” she said “Lady’s in the news.”
Loki swatted at the paper.
Chapter 12
B.J. and Darby arrived for supper at six thirty, and Evergreen saw that both of them needed a little cheering up. She was glad she had settled on comfort food—a tender pot roast with carrots and onions, and mashed potatoes on the side, green peas lightly steamed, and a crusty loaf of bread. Talking could wait, she thought.
And it did wait until Darby finished one more thick slice of buttered bread, recovered from whatever he was brooding about and grinned.
“You haven’t heard about our trespassing adventure last night,” he said to Evergreen.
“Oh, hush!” B.J. said, but she didn’t really mean it.
Together, laughing, they told her about their trip halfway down Marcilla Trice’s driveway, and the wild barking of Pinky Brayburn’s poodles.
Evergreen laughed too.
“But good for the poodles,” she said. “They’re doing their jobs. And, Darby, I can tell you now that her back yard is about as big as mine, which you will get very tired of mowing.”
“Really?” Darby asked, getting up to look through the sliding glass doors.
“Is she definitely going to sell?” B.J. asked. “I’d love to see the inside of the house.”
“I’ll tell her that you two are interested in living in one of the older neighborhoods and see if she’ll be willing to let you see the inside. Now, do you want your apple pie with or without ice cream?”
It was only when she was getting ready for bed that she finally realized who that baby in the picture had reminded her of, and it was someone long gone, and she felt a little melancholy.
At a little after four a.m., Evergreen woke from a bad dream with her heart pounding.
She felt a cold nose against her cheek and the tickle of whiskers on her nose. Loki had sensed her panic.
“Oh, I’m glad you’re all right,” she said to the cat.
In the dream she had been taking a carload of old newspapers to the city�
�s recycling bins, taking Loki with her for reasons inexplicable. The familiar alley had seemed long and twisting, the trees wintry. When she lifted the top of the newspaper bin, a wolf had jumped out at her and chased Loki through the woods.
As she relaxed, she found the dream silly. It wasn’t even a real wolf, she thought.
Wolves were supposed to be beautiful, mysterious creatures. This was more like a storybook wolf—scruffy and gray. It was the kind of Big Bad Wolf that threatened pigs and ate grandmothers in fairy tales.
It couldn’t mean anything, she thought she settled down to go back to sleep, but all the same, she broke a longstanding rule and let Loki sneak under her quilt and snuggle by her feet.
Chapter 13
Three hours later, B.J. was starting her morning run. She had half-hoped for another rainy morning just to have an excuse to sleep a little longer. She ruffled Darby’s hair and asked him if he wanted to get up and run with her, but he scowled without opening his eyes.
It took some will-power, but once she was dressed and out the door, she saw that it was a beautiful morning for running—the sun just up, a bare hit of winter in the air, and a nice breeze with red and gold leaves beginning to fall.
She stretched and touched her toes with her fingertips a few times thinking that she might just run down Willow Street on her return trip and take a quick look at Marcilla Trice’s house in the morning light.
And if she happened to see Pinky Brayburn, and Pinky happened to have looked out the window on Tuesday night and recognized them, she’d own up with a friendly smile, and just ask her not to mention it to Marcilla Trice, please.
She had just started running, when who should appear at the corner of Russell and Willow but Pinky.
B.J. smiled and waved.
Pinky didn’t wave back.
Instead, she quickly looked away and hurried the poodles across the street. There was no sidewalk on the other side of Russell Street, only a line of trees and bushes that bordered City Park. Pinky hurried along the uneven ground talking to her dogs and not looking B.J.’s way.
B.J. realized she was being avoided.
She had a sinking feeling of guilt. Could it be about the driveway episode, or had Pinky somehow realized that B.J. didn’t really want to stop and chat? Were her feelings hurt?
She stopped and watched as Pinky went through the entrance to the park with her head ducked, and decided the running could wait.
She would find out what the problem was, and make it right.
She had just started toward the park entrance when she heard a popping sound—a gunshot. Or was it? She ran to see.
A second shot came as she reached the park entrance. The poodles were barking wildly.
By the third shot, she had hurled herself behind the big oak tree just inside the park, pulled her phone out of her pocket, pressed #1, and edged around the tree.
“Active shooter at Creekside Park,” she told the dispatcher, snapping out one order after another and ending with, “I’m unarmed.”
She peeked around the tree. The poodles were not in sight, and had stopped barking. She hoped they hadn’t been shot.
She called out, “Miss Pinky!” but got no answer.
Looking around the periphery of the park she saw a branch move on the opposite side of the park, near the water tank. It was snapping upward into place as if it had been pushed down. Then she saw the crumpled body by the park bench.
“Ambulance,” she said into her phone. Now!”
There had been no more shot after the third one. B.J. took the risk that the shooting was over, and flung herself across the remaining few yards toward Pinky Brayburn.
Pinky was breathing, but unresponsive at first. Blood was soaking through her pink hoodie somewhere near her right shoulder. B.J. couldn’t see any other wounds and hoped that meant that the bullet hadn’t hit its real target.
She heard a sharp bark and glanced toward the creek.
The sheltie had arrived and taken charge of the poodles, herding them under a concrete picnic table.
“Good dog,” she said absently, and turned back to Pinky, who had opened her eyes and was trying to speak.
“Puppies.” was all she heard.
“Miss Pinky,” she said softly. “The puppies are just fine. We’ll take care of them. Who shot you?”
“Puppies…” Pinky mumbled, and her eyes closed again. B.J. was relieved to hear sirens coming from the direction of Taylor Drive. The other entrance to the park was on that side.
And then Demetrius’ cruiser was pulling into the entrance she’d used. She was glad to see that Andrea was with him.
She held up her hand to stop him, and he rolled his window down.
“Over by the water tank,” she said. “Somebody was there. Andrea, I need you here.”
As he backed out, B.J. realized that the poodles were barking again and heading her way, and the sheltie was nowhere to be seen.
“Thanks, Lady,” she whispered.
As the paramedics took over with Pinky, Chip Stanley arrived and proved his worth by getting the poodles by their leashes.
“You want me to take them over to our place?” he asked B.J. “They’d probably freak out at the shelter and Linda can get them settled down.”
“Yes, do!” B.J. said. “I think the shot came from over that way. Did you see anybody on foot or driving fast on Taylor?”
Chip looked toward the water tank and said, “Only person I remember seeing was Allie Painter. She works at the high school lunchroom. That was almost down to Shirley Drive though.”
“She might have seen somebody leaving the alley,” B.J. said. “Once you get the dogs settled, how about finding her and asking.”
One of the paramedics interrupted to hand B.J. Pinky’s key ring.
“You’d better hold onto this,” he said. ”She doesn’t have a wallet with her. Maybe you can get her insurance information and next-of-kin. They’ll take care of her at the E.R., but the hospital’s going to need all that.”
“You think she’s going to make it?” B.J. asked.
“The sooner we get there, the better,” he said.
Chapter 14
Evergreen told herself to calm down.
First there was that wolf dream, and just a few minutes ago, she had experienced one of her sudden startled feelings and dropped a pot full of basil. She was shivering.
“Something’s happened,” she said to Loki, as she picked up the shards of pottery.
Loki was enjoying the morning sunshine on the deck, and didn’t open his eyes.
“Something bad has happened,” Evergreen repeated.
Loki understood the urgency in her voice, and had the good manners to open his eyes and give her a wise look. Then he shut them again.
“I wonder if I’m losing my grip,” Evergreen said, reaching for the broom to sweep the dirt up. “First I couldn’t remember for the life of me who that baby reminded me of and then I had that stupid dream and now I can’t even take a little feeling of dread without breaking a pot.”
She heard the phone ring in the kitchen.
“I need to know Pinky Brayburn’s next of kin,” B. J. said. “She’s been shot. She’s still alive but she’s in a bad way. Does she have children?”
“Oh, dear,” Evergreen said. “So that’s what it was. She has a daughter, Quincy, who lives in Decatur now. Benton would know how to reach her, or know somebody who will. Do you want me to call him?”
“Oh, please do!” B.J. said. “That would be a big help.”
“Where did this happen?” Evergreen asked. “Did somebody break in?”
“At the city park,” B.J. said. “She was walking the dogs. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back later. Thank you for your help.”
“Wait! What about the dogs?” Evergreen asked.
“They’r
e fine,” B.J. said hurriedly, “Chip Stanley’s taking them to his house,” and then she blurted out, “And, Evergreen, the same sheltie came and herded the poodles away from the body and got them under a picnic table.”
“That’s my Lady!” Evergreen said. “Maybe she always wanted to be a police dog.”
B.J. didn’t have to hunt long in Pinky’s tidy house. The wallet was in a shoulder bag hanging on a hook in her tidy kitchen, right next to the pink touchtone wall phone. She went through the bag quickly, finding a drivers license, a Medicaid card, a Social Security card, and even one of Quincy Brayburn Holmes’ business cards with her telephone number on it, and “next of kin” scrawled on the back. There were credit cards and almost two hundred dollars in cash.
She decided to take the whole thing with her, just in case it occurred to someone that the house wasn’t occupied. She could turn it over to the daughter later.
The doorbell rang, and she went to the door to find a gray-haired woman in her bathrobe. It was Mary Frances Singletary, who had recently retired as Laurel Grove’s city clerk and was a sensible, take-charge type.
“Chief Bandry, what’s happened?” she asked. “I just saw her go out to walk the dogs a little while ago.”
“She’s been taken to the emergency room,” B.J. said. “She’s been shot but she’s still alive.”
“Shot? Who would shoot Pinky? Was it an accident? Some idiot shooting at the buzzards on the water tank?”
“I don’t know,” B.J. said. “Do you know of anyone she was having a disagreement with, anyone who might wish her harm?”
“Goodness, no,” Mary Frances said, and then she frowned slightly.
“But she’s been fretting about something,” she said. “She hasn’t been her usual self. I took her my RSVP to the luncheon yesterday. I took it over, and she’ll usually chat my ear off, but this time she just said, “Thank you!” and didn’t even ask me in. I was wondering if I had hurt her feelings by getting it in late. Maybe I did, but that’s not like Pinky.”
Who Killed Kasey Hill Page 8
