The Claudia Hershey Mysteries - Box Set: Three Claudia Hershey Mysteries

by Laura Belgrave

  From the first day on, most of the officers called her “Stilts” behind her back. Robin complained the kids she met wouldn’t stop staring, and she cried for a week when she realized the town had no mall. And both of them learned early on that the slightest breeze carried not the scent of confederate jasmine but the stench of cattle.

  In a rare and awful moment of impulse, Claudia at thirty-six, with a thirteen-year-old child and a U-Haul in tow, had embraced not the Norman Rockwell village she thought she’d found, but a make-do community where yellow cattle-crossing signs became landmarks for roads that were otherwise unmarked altogether. Still, short on money and long on determination, Claudia tried to make the best of it. She was stuck with Indian Run and it was stuck with her until the end of her one-year contract.

  But Claudia said none of that to Chief Suggs. It was personal to him, what happened in the town. And anyway, his campaign to goad her was beside the point. The point was the dead woman at their feet.

  When Suggs paused long enough to fumble for another Tums, Claudia pointed at the still form and reminded him in clipped words that he had asked for an assessment.

  “Like it or not,” she began, “you wanted to know what we’ve got here, and a big part of what we’ve got right now is about the most seriously contaminated crime scene I’ve ever had to deal with in my life.”

  Claudia thrust a hand toward the door Ridley had broken. It leaned crazily, letting in a single shaft of light. “It’s going to play hell with the investigation and yes, the crime scene techs are going to climb our clocks because of it. Now if that’s not what you want to hear, then your best bet is to find someone else to put on this case, or give it up to the sheriff’s department.”

  Dust motes moved lazily through a finger of light between them. Claudia looked past them. She locked eyes with Suggs.

  The chief took a long time to respond. “Indian Run hasn’t had a murder in four years,” he said quietly. “And that hardly qualified. Was just some joker who sliced up another guy over a pool table fight. I can’t even think of anything before that. But now—what you’re telling me now—I got myself a psychic killed on Halloween night. To top it off I got a crime scene with maybe the best evidence stuck under one of my own officer’s shoes.”

  Claudia started to speak, but Suggs held up both hands. “Don’t look like I got much choice here, Hershey. Don’t know much about homicide. My boys know less.” He gave her a long look. “So all right. Do what you got to do. Say what you got to say. We’ll go your way for now.”

  With a snap, Claudia shut her notebook and slipped it into the pocket of her jacket, a fermenting ground for most of her investigations. The jackets she characteristically wore, special-ordered wraps with sturdy bellows pockets and a mid-thigh cut, managed to conceal her revolver and much of the police paraphernalia the job required. Robin thought them tacky.

  As Claudia turned back to the kitchen, Suggs stopped her briefly. She turned inquiringly.

  “Hershey, I hear tell you play the oboe,” Suggs said. “That true?”

  Warily nodding, Claudia conceded that it was. Probably another black mark, and she wondered how Suggs had heard that. Wished it were the banjo instead.

  “You play it good?”

  “I play it so-so,” said Claudia, though in truth she played quite well.

  Suggs grunted.

  “What?” said Claudia. “What’s the point?”

  “No point. Everything gotta have a point with you, Hershey?”

  “Most things do.”

  “Well, this don’t. I heard it yesterday and so I’m askin’.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it, Hershey.”

  With no further explanation, Suggs fished a piece of candy from the bowl on Donna Overton’s table and went outside. Claudia took one last, lingering look in the kitchen, then followed briskly. The scent of blood would be with her the rest of the day.

  Chapter 2

  For the longest time afterward, it was almost impossible to pull in a deep breath. He sucked at the air noisily, taking it in huge gulps to stem the nausea. And the sweat—it seeped from every pore as if he’d just run a marathon. He could smell himself; swore he could smell her too.

  But it was over. She was dead, and he had killed her, and he was glad.

  The man let the hours pass into light, burn into the brilliance of afternoon, then fade softly into night. He moved from his chair twice, once to shower and use the toilet, once to eat cold pizza from two days earlier and catch what they were saying on the radio. Then he sat again, just staring. His breath came evenly now and he could think clearly.

  The bitch didn’t understand. He could see it on her face. Hear it in her voice. And it was amazing, really, that she didn’t. How many times had they been over it? For God’s sake, how many times?

  Tilting his head, the man listened to the silence. Then he chuckled. For a minute, he thought he’d heard her again! How ridiculous. He gave his head a shake and laughed aloud. Okay. So maybe he still had a little of the heebie-jeebies in him. Made sense. He hadn’t been sure he would kill her. He hadn’t planned it at all. But she’d surprised him, all right. He hadn’t counted on her coming back. No, sir! Maybe he should have, but he didn’t and so he’d had to kill her dead.

  Well. There were things to consider now, weren’t there? As good as it felt, the bitch being dead, there were things he had to know, and he played the scene through his mind like film on a reel.

  On the plus side, as messy as it had been, he didn’t think he’d left anything behind and thank God, the cops here were all a bunch of Barney Fifes. They lived for speeders barreling through town on the way to somewhere else. Unexpected death? Well, it just didn’t happen in Indian Run. They wouldn’t know what to do.

  Still: Those machines, that new forensic equipment, it could be pretty sophisticated, couldn’t it? Would it find something invisible, or maybe some little hair or something? And—what was it the radio newscaster said? That some new detective was leading the case, some woman lieutenant? She wasn’t from here, not originally. Would that be important?

  Restless now, the man rose from his chair. He set about making dinner. Steak, baked potato. A couple of rolls. It surprised him a little, his appetite returning. But he took it as a good sign. What he’d done, it had been the right thing. The only thing. And the detective, forget it. If she was any good she wouldn’t be in a two-bit town like Indian Run. Probably a drunk bounced off a force somewhere else. He’d watch her, find out what he could, listen to what everyone was saying—God, how they loved to talk in this town—but he wouldn’t worry.

  The bitch was dead. His biggest worry was over.

  The steak sizzled on the broiler. The man flipped it, judging it nearly done. He pulled the potato from the microwave and wrapped it in foil to keep it warm. Then he heated a few rolls and set everything on the table.

  Come Monday, he would go about his business like always, like he always had until the bitch opened her mouth, wanting from him—always making demands.

  The man paused, a forkful of steak halfway to his mouth. That she was gone, it was partly luck. Just plain, stupid luck and luck was not the way to make things turn out right. He knew that; he would have to move through his days carefully.

  Mulling it over, the man brought the fork closer to his mouth. The meat was medium-rare, perfect. He grunted and opened his mouth, starved. But wait a minute! Wait a minute! What was this? His eyes narrowed and he jerked his hand closer to his vision, dropping the fork. Damn it! A nick on the fleshy part of his hand! He hadn’t noticed it earlier.

  As if it were on someone else, the man stared at the cut, spellbound. Not a bad cut, but it was there and he didn’t remember it. How could that be! His hand began to tremble. Then it shook violently and he began to sweat once more. His stink rose up again.

  The bitch had left a reminder after all. She had carved the memory on his flesh. Maybe she would never, ever leave him alone. Not really.


  The man retreated to his chair, his supper untouched. He had to think, he had to think. He had to get past this, put his life back where it had been before the bitch had surprised him. She didn’t call the shots. Not now. He just had to remind himself that he was in control. Yes. He was in control.

  Chapter 3

  Indian Run Junior High had been around for thirty-five years. Its history showed in the center of the hallway where tile once blue had worn to a matte gray from thousands of footsteps. Wax buildup from optimistic cleanings climbed the walls a good two inches, announcing age like tree rings.

  But except for the rapid tick of Claudia’s shoes, the hallways were silent at five o’clock. No games on a Monday. No dances. No club meetings.

  Claudia swept past a long row of scarred metal lockers, then slowed, looking for room 107. She would have preferred a root canal to the unexpected summons from Robin’s algebra teacher. It couldn’t be good news and she was tired, two eighteen-hour days into a murder investigation. Where would she find time to swing into the appropriate mother role—whatever the hell that was—when even when she had the time Robin responded to mother noises with less enthusiasm than she displayed toward a television commercial?

  Just past a drinking fountain, the door to 107 stood open and Claudia saw a man hunched over a desk in front of a blackboard. He looked up unsmiling when she knocked.

  “You must be Robin’s mother,” he said, rising and formally extending a hand. “I’m Victor Flynn. Thank you for coming.”

  Flynn stood as tall as Claudia, but was thick and slightly stoop-shouldered, as if mathematics maybe weighed him down. His handshake was firm, but clammy, and when he spoke he revealed uneven teeth that loosed a blast of sour breath. Claudia drew back reflexively.

  “Please, have a seat,” Flynn said. He had small slate eyes that peered restlessly at Claudia from behind heavy, black-framed glasses. “I know you must be very busy.”

  The spindly student desks advertised discomfort for all but the most tolerant. Claudia tested one for wobble, then perched stiffly on the edge.

  “Mrs. Hershey,” said Flynn as he rested a hip on the edge of his own desk, “I asked that you come in so that we can head off what appears to be a problem with your daughter, Robin.”

  There it was. The kiss of death.

  “I’m afraid her grade is slipping rather dramatically,” Flynn continued. He fiddled with the stems of his glasses. “I know I don’t have to tell you that Robin is a very bright young lady, but what you might not be aware of is that in the past several weeks she just hasn’t been working to her full ability.”

  Oh, shit. Hadn’t been aware. Should have been aware, but wasn’t aware. Bad mother, bad mother.

  “Unfortunately,” Flynn continued, “she’s sliding into a D and if she doesn’t concentrate she’ll be looking at an F.”

  Jolted, Claudia shook her head. Surely a mistake. She could see the kid bent over the dining room table, books spread out, a Diet Pepsi to the side, a fluorescent green pad opened in front of her.

  “I don’t get it,” Claudia said slowly, her spine straightening. “Are you sure? Her report card showed her with a solid B. I don’t understand how she could drop that far that fast.”

  A thin smile split Flynn’s mouth. He stroked the insubstantial sideburn above his right ear. He had limp brown hair to match, the sort of hair that would fall out prematurely.

  “Actually, I’m afraid your daughter never carried anything higher than a C grade,” Flynn said tolerantly. “You must be confusing the B with some other subject Robin’s carrying.”

  As clearly as if she were holding it now Claudia could still see the computerized sheet with gray type. She remembered thinking the printing ribbon should have been changed before the grades were sent out. But as for the grades themselves, well, they’d all been satisfactory, even good. Flynn was asking her to accept the unacceptable.

  Still: “You’re sure there’s no mistake?” Claudia asked. “These things do happen, don’t they? I mean, isn’t it possible you’ve confused Robin with some other student?”

  In response, Flynn handed Claudia a duplicate of Robin’s report card. “I’m sorry. There’s no mistake, Mrs. Hershey—or should I call you ‘Detective’ or ‘Lieutenant?’”

  What a howl, thought Claudia as she scanned the sheet, her eyes stopping on the “C-” for algebra. The alteration she had missed on Robin’s report card was something she never would have missed in police work. She murmured that it didn’t matter how Flynn addressed her.

  The teacher’s hands went back to the sideburns. “I guess this is something of a surprise to you,” he said solicitously, “but the truth is that Robin’s just not doing her homework regularly. What she does turn in is often incomplete. Consequently, she’s doing very poorly on tests.”

  Claudia hardly heard. She was disappointed; she was angry. Was this Robin’s way of getting back at her for uprooting her? Or was this a typical adolescent challenge that had more to do with hormones out of whack than anything Claudia did or failed to do? Were all thirteen-year-olds similarly conniving? Claudia didn’t know, and she despaired at how best to deal with it. Clearly, the way she had been dealing with it didn’t work.

  Since moving to Indian Run she’d given Robin full rein, trying to let her come to terms with an abruptly different situation in her own way. The biting sarcasm, the scornful looks, the flaunting of household rules, Claudia let it ride. The theory was, Robin would come around. What Flynn was telling her was that she hadn’t.

  Flynn reached for some papers. He held them out to Claudia. His hands shook slightly. “Um, take a look at these.”

  Claudia handled the papers as if bacteria crawled all over them. Three D’s. Five C’s. One B. Two F’s. On one paper, a quiz, Robin had doodled flowers. Without looking up, Claudia knew the algebra teacher’s ferret eyes were all over her.

  “This is just since the last marking period, Mrs. Hershey,” Flynn said. “I did make an appointment on Friday to talk to her this morning during her study hall, but she didn’t follow through.”

  Claudia’s stomach contracted. She looked up. “She never showed at all?”

  “She told me in class this afternoon that she’d forgotten and that she uh, had band practice after school and couldn’t make it later.” Flynn leaned forward slightly. “There is no band practice today, Mrs. Hershey. Frankly, I’m quite concerned.”

  Nodding, Claudia said tersely, “I’m just a bit concerned myself.”

  What she didn’t tell him was that Robin had a tin ear. Not only did she not play an instrument, but she could barely distinguish one instrument from another. The lies were piling up like traffic at rush hour.

  Flynn was doing that damnable thing with his sideburns again. Claudia wanted to bat his hands away. “I guess I should thank you for letting me know what’s going on,” she said. “I’m sure not all teachers would bother.”

  “Don’t give it another thought,” said Flynn. He regarded Claudia with—what was that—glee? “I take pride in my teaching and I take an active interest in my students.”

  Claudia started to rise, but Flynn was just warming up. He launched into his philosophy of teaching and Claudia tuned him out. Her eyes drifted to the blackboard. Numbers and letters were painstakingly chalked all over it. Most of them were meaningless to Claudia; she remembered algebra as “X equals Y” or some such thing. It made about as much sense as Donna Overton’s brutal slaying, and Claudia’s mind turned to the preliminary reports from the medical examiner and the crime lab.

  The Reverend Donna Overton was killed between eleven and midnight, maybe twelve-thirty, by repeated blows to the head from some unknown blunt instrument. According to the medical examiner, death probably closed her eyes with the third or fourth blow, but the killer hadn’t stopped there. Nine blows could be distinguished, though the medical examiner speculated as many as thirty had been applied. A few blows had landed on the woman’s shoulders and she’d additionally suffer
ed a broken index finger on her right hand, probably from falling, fighting, or a poorly placed whack by the killer.

  The angle of the blows and the blood pattern on the kitchen walls suggested the killer was right-handed, tall, and strong. He’d come at her straight on, and probably quickly; other than the broken finger and overturned table, there were no telltale signs of combat or even serious defense. The killer had come in close, but not close enough—not in any sort of body wrap—for there weren’t any tissue or cloth fibers beneath Overton’s fingernails, nor was there any blood that hadn’t drained out of the woman herself.

  And of blood, there had been plenty. It had splotched the walls and pooled on the small linoleum floor. The victim’s clothing, a flowing blouse with a bright, flowered print and black skirt, were drenched to the point that colors were hard to distinguish. Some of the blood on the floor had been diluted by water, likely spilled from a plastic tumbler that had fallen from the table.

  Rape was not an issue. The medical examiner’s report showed no evidence of vaginal bruising, no deposit of semen.

  Not robbery. Not rape. What then?

  Flynn’s voice intruded and Claudia looked up. That she was Flynn’s sole audience seemed not at all bothersome to the teacher. He proselytized at length, first about the value of keeping to goals, then about overcoming obstacles by eliminating distractions. His voice rose and fell like a preacher’s.

  Claudia smiled mechanically, nodded perfunctorily and blocked him back out.