Dark Coulee

by Mary Logue

  Claire thought about it. “No, thanks. I don’t think that will be necessary. I saw quite enough of him last night. I located the wound, although it was gushing blood, as you surmised.”

  He motioned to his desk. “The blade of the knife was probably about six inches long. Pretty standard for any kind of long-bladed knife. So that’s not much help. I was just writing up my notes. I’ll get you a copy of them as soon as I’m done. But I think it’s time for my midafternoon break. Can I persuade you to join me for a piece of pie?”

  “I planned it that way.”

  They walked across the street to the small café that Dr. Lord frequented. Claire had had dealings with the doctor several times since she had joined the sheriff’s office. He treated her with respect and was a delight to be around, but he also had several weaknesses, and one of them was any sort of pie.

  They settled into a booth by the window, and the dyed blond waitress automatically brought over two coffee cups and a pot of coffee. “What’ll it be today, Doc?”

  “What do you recommend, Doris?”

  “The apple streusel looks good, and I know you always like the double chocolate fudge pie.”

  “I think I’ll go with the chocolate and a dollop or two of whipped cream.”

  “I’ll have the coconut cream,” Claire announced. She hadn’t had a piece of coconut cream pie in twenty years. But once she saw it on the menu, it sounded perfect.

  Dr. Lord poured them both cups of coffee, and Claire poured some milk into hers. She needed to get her calcium.

  “How are the Spitzler children doing?” Dr. Lord asked.

  “I’m not sure. They were in deep shock last night. I’m going out there next to check on them. The boy is nearly eighteen, so we’ve left them on their own, which makes me feel uncomfortable. Maybe a relative will come out and stay with them.”

  “No one came when their mother died. It was a good thing Jed worked at home, or I don’t know what he would have done.”

  “I’m glad you mentioned that. I keep hearing references to her death, but what exactly happened to Mrs. Spitzler?”

  “Her first name was Rainey. She was a pretty woman. Fine, slim figure, golden hair, light complected.” Dr. Lord rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “I hate to remember that day they brought her in to the morgue. Unlike her husband, she did die on her way to the hospital. I heard the kids were hysterical. I think they had to sedate the older girl. Jenny? Is that her name?”

  Claire nodded. “Yes—I think she’s been sedating herself ever since.”

  “Both of Rainey’s hands were smashed. Total trauma. Every bone in her hands and her arms up to her elbows was broken, nearly pulverized. Several fingers were pulled right off her hands. She had been working with the two oldest kids and her husband and had fallen into the machine that squeezes juice out of sorghum. Have you ever seen a sorghum press?”

  “No, I don’t even know what sorghum is,” Claire said. “I haven’t spent much time on farms.”

  “Dangerous places. I could tell you stories.” He shook his head. “Well, sorghum is a tall grass. Its stems are crushed to extract juice, which is then boiled to make a syrup. A sorghum press is made up of three metal rollers—two on top and one on the bottom. You feed the sorghum through it, and the juice drips out the bottom. Rather simple. Very effective. And like much farm machinery, if used incorrectly, quite dangerous.”

  “How did that kill her?”

  “Well, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Everything was mangled and mashed. It was as if she had slit her wrists from the inside. Once they released her from the machine, she started to bleed. From what I’ve heard, Jed carried her to the car, had the children manage her while he drove into town. He didn’t call an ambulance. I don’t think it would have made any difference. I heard the children blamed him for her death. Said if he would have acted faster, called for help, they might have saved her. I tried to talk to them once. I told them I didn’t think she could have been saved. She was in very bad shape. And there was certainly no saving those hands—they were smashed beyond repair. What kind of life would she have had? I have to wonder. But that’s beside the point.”

  The waitress brought their pie, and Claire was glad to eat something sweet and not think of farm accidents. Her coconut cream pie was light and tasty, the coconut flakes caramelized on top of the meringue. Dr. Lord ate his chocolate pie with a certain amount of reverence, and Claire let the silence settle on the table. She found him such a comfortable man to be around.

  When he was done, he pushed his plate back, poured them both a little more coffee, and said, “Now I can finish my day. I always seem to need a little boost in the late afternoon. With my impending old age, I indulge myself.”

  “Anything more you can tell me about the knife used on Jed Spitzler?”

  “Sometimes I forget you’re a policewoman, and then you rudely remind me.” He smiled at her. “The knife? Nothing special about the knife. An ordinary long-bladed knife that everyone has at least one of at home. I’ll be more specific in my report.”

  “Something used around the farm?”

  “Possibly. Are you suggesting this might be, in another form, a farm accident?”

  The daylight hurt her eyes. Her body ached as if every bone were being pulled on. Jenny sat in the living room with the shades drawn and slowly drank a cup of coffee. Halfway through the second day with no Darvocet, and her mind felt like a balloon about to burst. Withdrawal was no fun.

  Nora sat on the floor, drawing a picture of their farm. Brad and Jenny had decided to let Nora stay home from school today with them. Jenny noticed that Nora was drawing all the animals lined up, like in a parade.

  “What’s that one?” Jenny pointed to a small brown animal that looked like a cross between a beaver and a pig.

  “That’s the groundhog that lives in the culvert.”

  “You’re even putting the wild animals in.”

  “I consider him a pet. He’s pretty friendly.”

  “Not to the dogs.”

  Nora continued to draw, humming a little tuneless tune under her breath. She had cried a few times yesterday, but so far today she didn’t seem too upset. Jenny looked down at the small head of tousled blond curls and didn’t know if she was up to taking care of her sister.

  “Where’s Brad?” Jenny asked.

  “He’s out doing chores.”

  Brad had been very quiet yesterday. He went to bed early and got up early this morning. Being the good boy, taking care of everything. Jenny often found him very hard to talk to, even though in many ways they were quite close. If they were going to keep the farm together, they would need to learn how to talk to each other.

  “Oh, the police are coming over,” Nora announced. “This woman called while you were in the shower. She said they’d be over before suppertime.”

  Suppertime. Jenny wondered what they’d eat tonight. She really should try to take care of that. She wasn’t a good cook, but maybe it was time she learned how to do it right. They still had all Mom’s old cookbooks.

  “What do you want for supper?” she asked Nora.

  “Pancakes.”

  Pancakes sounded good. Mom used to make pancakes and eggs for supper sometimes, for a treat. Eating breakfast for supper was kind of fun. Jenny felt like they hadn’t had pancakes since her mother died. That couldn’t be true, but she couldn’t remember eating them in the last four years. So many things had died with their mother.

  Jenny went into the kitchen and got out the Betty Crocker cookbook. She propped it open on the kitchen counter and then cleared off the rest of the counter.

  “I’m going to make pancakes. Can you do the dishes?”

  They had never gotten a dishwasher. Mom had wanted one so bad, but Dad said they were a waste of energy and water. He never did anything to make Mom’s life easier. Nora ran a sink full of hot water, piled all the dirty dishes into it, and washed away.

  Jenny lined up all the ingredients like the animals in Nora’s pi
cture: salt, flour, oil, egg, milk. She found the measuring cup and the measuring spoons. Then she got out a big blue bowl, the one Mom had always used when she made pancakes.

  Slowly and carefully, Jenny put everything she needed in the bowl. Nora pulled up a stool and watched her. Then she stirred it all together. Just as she was done, a knock came at the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Nora sang out, jumping off the stool and running for the door.

  Jenny covered the pancake batter with a towel. She remembered her mother doing that. Her mother said that pancake batter was always better if it sat for a while. Jenny looked around the kitchen. It was a pigsty. Her mother would be so ashamed if she could see her kitchen. Maybe, after the police left, Jenny would try to clean it up.

  Jenny walked out into the hallway and saw the woman deputy that had been at the hospital when Dad died. She had been nice to them. She was dressed in a uniform with her dark hair pulled back and no lipstick on, but she was easy to recognize because she had a big, full smile.

  “Hi,” Jenny said.

  “Hi, Jenny. I don’t know if you remember me. My name is Claire Watkins.”

  “I remember you. You went with us to see Dad.”

  “How are you doing?”

  For some reason, the woman’s question drew tears to Jenny’s eyes. It was the concern in her voice that did it. The understanding. It made Jenny think for a second of getting down on the floor, on her hands and knees, and telling everything. But then she saw the gun the woman carried and the badge she wore. There was no way this woman would understand. It was her job not to.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “I know it’s hard. The first few days you feel like you’ve been run over by a bulldozer, but you’re still numb. Then it gets worse.”

  Jenny nodded. She remembered how it had been when her mom died. She had wanted to shut her brain down. She wanted the world to stop. She hated everybody. Absolutely everybody.

  “Jenny, I need to ask you and Brad some more questions. I’m afraid, as you’ve probably figured out, that someone killed your dad. We’re going to try as hard as we can to find out who did it. We need your help.”

  “Nora, go get Brad.” Jenny watched Nora scamper away. Then she turned to the woman deputy. “Can I get you something? Coffee? I just reheated a pot. It doesn’t taste very good, though. Never does when you reheat it.”

  “You know, I just had a couple cups with a big piece of pie. I think I’m fine for the time being.”

  Jenny turned on the tap and filled a glass full of water for herself. She seemed to be craving water today, as if she needed to flush her system clean. Then she led the way to the living room and offered Claire a seat.

  “Is that your mother?” Claire asked, pointing to a family picture sitting on the fireplace mantel.

  Jenny said yes. The photograph had been taken right before Labor Day, the last picture anyone had taken of Mom. Her mother looked thin and a little worn, but still beautiful. Jenny hated the way her own hair looked in that picture, thin and flat to her head. Her eyes looked enormous, and her teeth were huge. A normal ugly twelve-year-old. Nora was a lot cuter than Jenny had ever been.

  “She’s very pretty,” Claire continued.

  Jenny knew her mom was pretty, but it seemed like such a lame thing to say. The picture didn’t show how gentle her mother could be, or how scared. Just a one-dimensional, smiling woman with her hand on Jenny’s shoulder.

  Brad walked in and took his boots off right by the door. Their mother had taught them to do that. He walked up and said hi and shook Claire’s hand.

  “Thanks for helping us last night,” he said. He always knew how to act. Especially around adults.

  “You’re welcome. As I’ve already told Jenny, I’d like to ask you two more questions. Anything you can think of that might shed some light on what happened to your dad—who might have stabbed him—please tell me.”

  Claire took them through the night, step by step. How Dad had seemed, when they had gone to the dance, when they had last seen him. Then she asked them about Lola. “Were your father and Lola getting along?”

  Brad shrugged. Jenny decided to say something. “I think they weren’t getting along as well as they had at first.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I can just tell with Dad. He was always snapping at her. He didn’t even want to go to the dance last night. Somehow she persuaded him.”

  “What about Leonard Lundgren? Do you know who he is?”

  They both nodded.

  “Has he made any threats to your father?”

  Brad answered. “Not that I know of.”

  Claire turned to Jenny.

  Jenny answered. “I should tell you something. You said to tell you anything that might shed some light. This happened about three weeks ago. That guy, that Leonard, he was here on the farm. Remember, Brad?”

  Brad nodded.

  “It was dark out. Lola was over. We had finished supper and were watching TV. I went out to put the chickens in, and I heard something over in the barn. I just thought it was an animal, so I walked over to see what it was. I saw him. He was digging around in Dad’s tools. I yelled at him, and he slipped out the back way.”

  “Did you tell your father?”

  “No. But I told Brad.”

  “Why didn’t you tell your father?”

  Jenny stopped for a moment and thought how to phrase what she was about to say. “Dad gets mad kinda easy. And Leonard was gone. When Dad gets mad he takes it out on anybody. I didn’t feel like dealing with him. Anyway, I just think Leonard was here sniffing after Lola. I figured with any luck Dad and Lola would break up pretty soon, and he could have her back.”

  Claire felt like she had Lundgren now. All she had to do was fill out the affidavit requesting the search of Leonard Lundgren’s house, outbuildings, and vehicles. She needed to list it all. In the country, many people kept more stuff in their outbuildings than they did in their houses, and she could search only the places she had listed.

  If she could get all the documents to the courthouse before Judge Shifsky left, they might be able to get over there tonight. Catch him at home just as he got off work. That would be good, although he would have had all of Sunday to clean up any mess.

  Tonya walked up to Claire’s desk and deposited a pink slip on it. “While you were gone …,” the slip read, and Tonya had filled in: “Lover boy called.” Claire felt a smile pull at her lips.

  “Lover boy? Mine or yours?” she teased Tonya.

  “You know who I mean. That Rich guy. He sure has a nice voice. Smooth and deep, full of promise.”

  “My goodness, Tonya, you could become a romance writer with that kind of language.”

  Tonya flipped her long hair away from her face and said, “You think?”

  “Hey, is Billy still around?”

  “I think he’s out back, dinking around with the squad car that’s on the fritz.”

  “Could you run out and ask him if he has time to run out to Lundgren’s house with me? I’d go ask him myself, but I’d really like to get this search warrant in pronto.”

  “Sure.”

  Claire looked at the slip with the message from Rich, folded it, and put it in her purse. Later. She’d call him later.

  She went back to the affidavit: List what will be searched for. A knife or any long-bladed instrument, any bloody clothes, any blood in the vehicle, and blood in the house. That should give them the amount of leeway they would need. Once in a case early in her career she had been too specific; they had found incriminating evidence, but it had not been listed on the warrant, and so they couldn’t take it. She would never forget that.

  Tonya ran up to her desk. “I got Billy. He says he’s ready to go whenever you are.”

  “Great, Tonya. Now, can you call the crime lab and ask them to be ready to meet us there? I think we’ll want them to go over his truck.”

  Claire looked over the two affidavits and the three search
warrants. All t’s were crossed, all i’s dotted. A glance to her watch told her she had fifteen minutes to spare. The courthouse was two minutes away. Just hope that Shifsky hadn’t had a light load today and left early.

  She walked briskly over to the courthouse. In her mind, she was already searching the premises. She wanted to get to Leonard first. Then the vehicle. Rich had said he was driving a truck—a Toyota, early nineties. Tan. It was important to know which vehicle he had driven the night of the dance, because most people around these parts had more than one.

  Judge Shifsky was in her office, poring over a big law book.

  Her hair was pulled back into a braid, dark with threads of white sewn through it. She was a small woman with an impressive face, a sharp nose, and deep-set eyes. She looked up when Claire knocked on the edge of her door frame, since the door was open.

  “Come in, Deputy Watkins. What do you have for me this late afternoon?”

  “A search warrant, Your Honor.”

  The judge held out her hand, and Claire delivered all the papers to her.

  “Mr. Lundgren,” Judge Shifksy murmured. “Don’t think I know him. Has he been in trouble before?”

  “Not really, Your Honor.”

  “You feel good about your probable cause?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. He has motive—his ex-girlfriend was dating the victim. He had opportunity—he was seen at the crime scene.”

  “As was half the county,” Judge Shifsky added.

  “He was seen next to the body.”

  Shifksy nodded.

  “And, as I write on the affidavit, he was seen by the victim’s daughter trespassing on their property.” Claire wondered about that statement. She wasn’t sure she believed Jenny, but it served her purpose at the moment. It wasn’t up to her to determine if a witness was lying.

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “He probably should be checked out.”

  “That’s how I feel.”

  Judge Shifsky signed the warrants and kept her copy of the affidavit. “Let me know how it turns out.”