by Catie Rhodes
Somewhere between boiling water and adding the insane amount of sugar Memaw insisted on to the tea, a question occurred to me. Why didn’t the camo man kill me along with Rae? The latex gloves implied a willingness to kill me. Didn’t they? I thought it over as I stirred the syrupy tea. Not necessarily. They only implied a desire to mask his identity.
The camo man returned to the trailer after he killed Rae. If he wanted to kill me, he would have. Why else would he come back? Maybe he left something behind. He wore the latex gloves to make damn sure he left no prints while he retrieved…what? I just got in the way of him covering up his crime.
Cold droplets of tea sprayed my forearm, startling me out of my thoughts. My vigorous stirring had slopped it out of the pitcher. Disgusted, I wiped the sweet mess off my skin with a damp paper towel. I balanced the glass pitcher and two glasses on a tray and took it out to the back porch.
Memaw sat in a creaking wooden rocking chair, a blanket draped over her shoulders. She stared out at the crime scene with a blank expression on her face. Dr. Longstreet, who also served as Justice of the Peace, squatted next to her, murmuring something I couldn’t quite hear. He quit speaking when I came close.
They both accepted tall glasses of the quintessential southern elixir. I put down the tray and sat on the porch swing next to Dr. Longstreet. The horror of what I’d seen in the trailer wouldn’t leave me. It kept circling back to haunt me. The need to cry—to let some emotion out—tightened my chest. I saved stuff like that for when I was alone, though.
“How does this work?” I spoke to keep from crying. A little explosion of pain in my jaw rewarded the effort. I put my hand to my face and probed the sore area.
“You sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” Dr. Longstreet leaned in close and looked into my eyes. When I shook my head no, he nodded. He knew I’d sooner submit to a public demonstration of my ability to see the spirit world than agree to confinement in a hospital.
“As for how this works, your guess is as good as mine.” He rubbed his white mustache. “I ordered an autopsy at the investigator’s request.”
“Him?” I pointed at Dean Turgeau. He stood in the middle of the crime scene anthill pointing and giving orders. Every so often, he reached up to rub his temple. He was the only member of law enforcement who didn’t look excited.
“Yep.” Dr. Longstreet took a long sip of his tea, carefully removed a cloth hanky from his pocket, and wiped his mouth. He fixed his gaze on the pasture. The old doctor did a good job of keeping his mouth shut and would only supply information if I asked for it.
“Where’s he from?” I couldn’t hide my curiosity. Dean Turgeau’s sweaty, defined muscles and pretty-boy face had been my daily eye candy for nearly two months. I pegged him as a transplant, but figured he was temporary—perhaps doing contract work for King Ranch Chicken or Longstreet Lumber, the county’s two biggest businesses. It shocked me to learn he worked for Sheriff Joey.
“He moved here from South Louisiana. East Baton Rouge Parish. Why do you ask?” The corner of Dr. Longstreet’s mouth quirked into what might have been a smile had the circumstances been appropriate.
“He was first on the scene.” My words rushed out too fast. I sounded defensive. “He—”
“He and Peri noticed each other.” Memaw grinned, but only a shadow of her usual smile.
“We did not notice each other.” My reply dripped with overplayed outrage. Memaw loved to joke about my love life. She called it a fiasco.
“Isn’t he a little long in the tooth for you?” Dr. Longstreet raised his bushy white eyebrows.
Memaw chuckled and slapped her thigh. “Yeah, this one’s probably old enough to buy beer.”
“You make it sound like I date kids.” I folded my arms over my chest and sniffed. “I’ll have you both know they’re all out of high school, well over eighteen.”
Memaw and Dr. Longstreet hooted in delight and kept the barbs coming. I played straight man because we all needed the diversion. They were right about one thing, though. Dean Turgeau was too old and too straight for me.
It didn’t take long for the condolence callers, or insanely curious to be more accurate, to pile in on us. Memaw and I migrated inside. Everybody wanted iced tea. I played waitress. On one of my trips to the kitchen, I saw Dean Turgeau outside our yard struggling with the latch on the gate. My libido hopped a giddy little leap.
Why this guy? He was glaringly wrong for me. The uniform only represented the tip of the iceberg. He worked for Joey Holze, who hated me ever since I could remember. He worked in law enforcement, and my best friend spent most of his time on the wrong side of the law.
The TV people say death makes survivors want to have sex because it affirms they’re still alive. Maybe that’s where the sudden bolt of lust originated. A tryst with Dean Turgeau had the potential to stir up a shitstorm of epic proportions. I needed him like I needed another encounter with my camo-attired assailant. Even so, I brushed a hand over my hair—as though the action would make my hair not look like I’d just found a dead body and had my butt kicked—and stepped out onto the back porch.
FOUR
THE swarm of law enforcement and emergency personnel had vacated our property, and the trailer stood alone out in the pasture. Dean promised he’d come to finish the talk Sheriff Joey Fatbutt Holze interrupted, and here he was. Seeing me on the porch, he gave me that smile—which didn’t touch his eyes—and rattled the gate again. I jumped off the porch, ran down the brick walk, and unwound the wire.
“Thank you.” Turgeau’s eyes were tight around the corners and his full lips were white.
I held the gate open. Turgeau limped through, wincing with each step.
“You okay?” I asked. “Need some aspirin or an ice pack?”
“Naw.” He limped past me and climbed the porch steps. “Leg just gets tired at the end of the day.”
“What happened to it?”
Turgeau turned to face me. His blue eyes darkened to the gray of storm clouds. “Long story. Not pertinent to this situation.”
This was exactly why I stayed away from guys over twenty-five. Too complicated. Too full of old war wounds and baggage. They could turn nasty and lash out over nothing at any time.
“Feel well enough to answer questions about…” Turgeau waved a hand at the trailer sitting in the pasture and tried to smile. He couldn’t quite get his face to cooperate. The anger still hovered right at the surface of his emotions.
I shrugged.
“You’ve had some time to think. Any idea who beat you up?” Turgeau sat on the porch swing, closed his eyes, and sighed in relief. I wanted to offer him some of the bourbon Memaw kept for medicinal purposes, but didn’t want to risk his wrath again.
“Nope.” There had been something familiar about the camo man, but I couldn’t quite articulate it. “I did some thinking about why he didn’t kill me along with Rae.”
“What’s your theory?” He raised his eyebrows, mischief dancing in those amazing eyes. Despite the visual effect, I prickled at his amusement.
“He came back for something linking him to the trailer and Rae. Can’t you agree to that?”
“Maybe he just came back to make sure she was dead.” A hint of smart-ass flickered in his grin.
“Why the hell come talk to me if you think what I have to say is silly?” I shoved my hands into my pockets and glanced through the window at the tidy kitchen, wishing I were back inside.
“It’s not silly.” Turgeau shrugged. “But the two of us figuring out what he came back to get is like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
That made sense, and I’d been stupid. Now he knew I cared what he thought.
“Was your cousin seeing anyone?”
“Chase Fischer.” I leaned against one of the wooden supports. No matter how badly I wanted to sit, I wouldn’t share the porch swing with him.
“The same one who lives through the woods?” Turgeau’s face was no longer pinched with pain or amused. H
e leaned forward, his features keen with interest.
I nodded, even though I knew this couldn’t be good for Chase. “He was over there this morning, but he didn’t do that to Rae. I’ve known Chase since—”
“Back up a second.” Turgeau took the notebook and a pen out of his pocket and scribbled on the page. “The two of you talked this morning?”
“Yes. Rae was arguing with Chase. I went out there to tell ‘em to shut up.”
“Was Mr. Fischer…” Turgeau stared at his pad and frowned, probably too tired to think of a nice way to say it.
“Hitting her?”
Turgeau jerked a nod in response to my question and motioned me to continue.
“Not that I saw. They were arguing about whether she should report whoever beat her up.”
“You’re saying the beating had already happened?” Turgeau’s brow creased in a frown as his pen moved across his notepad at a fast pace. I nodded, wondering if he ever got writing cramps. “Did she say who hit her?”
“No, I—”
“You didn’t ask? Why not?”
“As I was about to say,” I made eye contact with Turgeau and held it, “I planned to speak with her this afternoon. I would have asked her about it then.” I knew this conversation was necessary, but this man was starting to jump all over my nerves.
“What were the two of you going to talk about?”
“When I asked them to shut up, she wanted a favor in return. We were supposed to talk about what that favor entailed this afternoon.”
“And you never did.” He chewed on his lip. “No idea what it was?”
“Not really—wait a minute. She asked me what I knew about the Mace Treasure.”
“Which is?”
“My umpteenth great-grandfather founded this town. Supposedly he went crazy and hid his fortune—“
“No, no. I know about the Mace Treasure. I watched the TV documentary. What do you know about the Mace Treasure? Or, even better, what did you tell Rae you knew?”
I sighed. “That it’s bunk. My grandfather died looking for it. My uncle killed my father over it. Their best friend hung himself over it.” I relished the way Turgeau’s face flushed at my recitation. “But there’s no money. Never was. That crazy old man they think hid the money probably ground it up, smoked it, and danced naked out in those woods.”
“Okay.” Turgeau shook off my grisly history lesson smoothly. “Go back to this afternoon when you found your cousin. When you walked back to her trailer, you only saw her car? No sign of another vehicle?”
“No other vehicles.” I explained about reaching into her car and turning off the radio. Turgeau mumbled something about fingerprints. I wanted to tell him to French kiss my butthole.
“The camo man came through the woods. Had to.” I explained how I’d heard him coming but didn’t pay attention. “We told you about that trail back there.”
“And Mr. Fischer—the boyfriend—lives back that way. Does he ever come to see your cousin that way? Instead of driving?”
What the hell was this guy trying to say? Chase? “Well, yeah, but Chase wasn’t the man who beat me up.”
“You said he had on a camouflage hunting mask.” Turgeau leaned back and watched me. “You don’t know who beat you up. When I first saw you, you barely knew where you were.”
“But I know Chase had nothing to do with this,” I insisted.
Turgeau blew out a long sigh. “Okay. How?”
“Because I’ve known him since I was five.” My certainty was hard to articulate. “He doesn’t even hunt. He cried when his mother’s Chihuahua got run over on the highway. Besides, he came to help his mother and I clean out his grandmother’s house this morning.”
Turgeau sat up straight. “When was that?”
“This morning.” I said the words louder than necessary, but it sounded like I being accused of something, and it sure seemed Chase was, too. “I told you that I had to work this morning cleaning out Mrs. Rudie Rushing’s house. Remember?”
Turgeau nodded and waved his hand at me to continue.
“Chase showed up between ten and eleven. He might have come earlier than that—”
I stopped speaking as Turgeau shook his head.
“I suspect she laid in there like that for a long time. Injuries like that…” He grimaced and swallowed.
The horror of this situation crashed over me. Turgeau wanted to pin the murder on Chase. And I could see him succeeding. I couldn’t let that happen. He was one of the only friends I had.
***
Anger rose from the well of hurt and darkness I kept buried, overriding the shock of Turgeau’s accusing my best friend. “Chase did not do this terrible thing. He struggles with substance abuse, and he parties hard. That does not make him a murderer.”
“Least you got part of it right. From what I hear, he’s a dope head who barely pays his child support.” Turgeau read in monotone from his notepad.
“Bet you got that from Sheriff Blubber Butt,” I said. “His daughter-in-law is Chase’s ex-wife and the mother of Chase’s son, Kansas. And he’s not behind on his child support—“
“He’s been taken in for drunk and disorderly conduct—”
“But that was just a bar fight.” My breath came in pants, and my heart kicked hard. I was fresh out of patience and ready to fight.
Turgeau held up his hand. “Calm down. Mr. Fischer will be investigated because he’s a logical suspect given the nature of the crime. He will not be arrested unless we find evidence connecting him to your cousin’s murder. Let’s move on.”
My cheeks burned. I resented Turgeau’s dismissive little shut down. And I craved a cigarette so I could blow toxic smoke in his face. He might enjoy acting like one those pretty-boy TV cops, but I had news for him. There was nothing prestigious about Gaslight City, Burns County, or anything to do with them. This was one of those places you went when nobody else wanted your sorry ass. Dean Turgeau would figure that out soon enough.
“Did you know any of Rae’s friends?” Perhaps sensing my hostility, Turgeau stood. Even though he couldn’t have been more than five-ten or so, he towered over me. Times like this, I hated being short.
“Just about every party animal in the county.” I focused on a dirt dobber nest in the corner of the porch’s ceiling and tried to let my anger go. It served no purpose other than getting me in trouble. “Look, Detective Turgeau—”
“No, ma’am. It’s Deputy. Burns County Sheriff’s Office is too small to have a dedicated homicide division.”
“Okay, Deputy Turgeau. Rae partied a lot. I can’t tell you how many different cars, trucks, and motorcycles I saw back there.”
“And you didn’t know any of her friends? Come on. You two were close to the same age.” He gave me a knowing grin that made me want to whap him.
“You’re right. We were three months apart in age.” I cringed at telling him my age. No woman wants a man who looked like Dean Turgeau to know her age. Especially if it’s over twenty-three. “Even so, Rae and I didn’t have a lot in common. Not since we were kids, anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Who gives a shit? She’s dead. Talking about our problems won’t bring her back.” Saying those words tore a hole in my heart. Why had I been so petty? I could have talked Memaw down more than once when she got upset at Rae’s antics. Instead, I went along with her, even encouraged her. “Ain’t none of your business anyway.”
“You have such a ladylike way of speaking.” He curled his lip at me.
“I figured I’d take my cues from the gentlemanly way you’ve been staring at my tits for the last thirty seconds.” I stood a little straighter as Deputy Dean’s face darkened.
“There is a reason I am asking these questions, Ms. Mace,” he said through clenched teeth. “My job is to figure out why somebody got angry enough with your cousin to do that to her. It took her a long time to die, Peri. And she was likely conscious for most of it. The more I know about her, the easier it is f
or me to solve her murder.”
Snapshots of Rae’s last moments formed in my imagination. Had she made those smears on the walls when she tried to push herself to a sitting position but couldn’t because it hurt too badly? Had she thought someone would come rescue her up to the very last minute? She probably hoped I’d come home and help her. But I didn’t. Tears stung my throat and eyes. I sucked them down.
“After Rae’s dad went to prison for murdering my father, Rae’s mother moved them to San Antonio. Every time I saw her, she got a little bit wilder and nastier.” Memories flooded, but I condensed them for the sake of the situation. “I didn’t see her for about ten years. Next I heard, she was coming to the end of a prison sentence and wanted to know if she could move here.”
“And the two of you didn’t resume your childhood friendship?” Turgeau’s eyes burned into me. His notepad lay forgotten on his lap, and he twirled his pen between his fingers.
“Nope. She got mean in prison—maybe before that.” I picked at the paint on the wooden supports. My words spilled out, even though I knew I needed to shut up. At least we had left the subject of Chase’s possible involvement in the murder. “Everything was a con with her, a way to see if she could take advantage of a situation or run over Memaw and me.”
“So the two of you had some disagreements.” Turgeau’s voice had an understanding lilt to it. That lilt invited me to confide in him, assured me he was a good guy to talk to. But I had enough sense to understand every word I said could paint me as a suspect.
