by Fay Robinson
“I am?” She looked down and frowned. “Oh. It was the spider’s fault.”
“You had a spider in your bathing suit?”
“No, in the window, silly. That’s why I’m still wearing my bra.”
There was logic in there somewhere, he supposed. Lucky’s kind of logic.
“Let me guess. You started to change clothes, but then you saw the spider and something about it fascinated you, so you stopped to watch it or take its photograph, and you forgot you hadn’t finished putting on your bathing suit.”
“Well, isn’t that what I just got through saying?” She rolled her eyes, as if she couldn’t believe he was so thickheaded. “Guess I’ll skip the swim and watch the sunset, instead.”
She settled in the big canvas hammock on the porch. When he’d washed off, he dabbed himself liberally with insect repellent, since he was starting to itch all over, and joined her, pulling her slight body close to his side. She put her head on his bare chest. Beanie lay down beneath them.
Everything had gone still and the few boaters who’d been out that afternoon were gone, their racing motors replaced by night sounds.
“What are those?” he asked. “Tree frogs?”
“Mostly. They’re singing for mates.”
“What do suppose they’re saying? ‘Hey, baby’?”
“More like ‘hey, baby…hey, baby…hey, baby.’”
“I’ll have to try that with you.” He put his lips against her temple and murmured, “Hey, baby.” She still didn’t laugh, and usually she did so easily.
“I don’t think you and I have any trouble mating,” she said. “The other ninety percent of the time is what we have to watch out for.”
“Things are better, aren’t they? You’ve been happy since I moved back?”
“Yes, I’ve been very happy.”
So it was something else that had her brooding. She’d tell him eventually.
They watched as the trees turned to silhouettes and the water became a ribbon of winding light. Darkness swallowed up the pinks and oranges of sunset, and the sky filled with stars.
“Nice,” he said. “As a kid, I used to climb onto the roof wherever we were living and watch the stars for hours. I thought I was really seeing them, but now I realize I wasn’t.”
“There’s less pollution and fewer city lights out here to interfere. Makes it perfect for watching meteors and eclipses.”
He had to admit that, at times like this, when he wasn’t having to worry about finding a coffee cup without rust stains in it or putting his foot through a hole in the floor, he almost understood why she liked this place. Good view. No neighbors to bother them. Stars.
“Are the windows on your car rolled up?” she asked. “It’s going to rain.”
“Lucky, it’s a beautiful night. Not a cloud in the sky.” Nor had he heard anything on the radio about bad weather.
“Still…it’s going to rain. I smell it and feel it on my skin. Better check your windows.”
“Mm.”
She fell asleep while they talked. One minute she was telling him about a comet she’d once photographed, and the next she was dead to the world.
He could easily stay like this all night, holding her, listening to the light snoring sounds she made when she slept on her back, but the bug repellent didn’t seem to be working any longer, and the last thing he wanted to be was a feast for mosquitoes.
He eased up and to his feet with a minimum of disruption to the hammock. “Come on, Beanie, let’s put Mama to bed.”
Gently he picked up Lucky, carried her to the bedroom and tucked her in. She stirred but didn’t wake. He decided that he, too, would turn in early, but his eyes hadn’t been closed a minute before a rumble made him open them.
Thunder. He got up and pulled on his pants. One of these days, maybe he’d learn to listen to her.
“STOP SCRATCHING! You’re going to spread it.” Lucky dabbed cortisone cream on Jack’s arms and hands. She’d never seen a worse case of poison ivy in her life, or one that had come up so quickly. His arms were covered. Lines of it had risen on his chest and neck. Bumps were appearing on his face. What had he done? Rolled in it?
He clawed at his skin. “Shit! I can’t stand this. I’m going nuts.”
They stood in the bathroom, Lucky still in the bra and bathing suit bottom she’d worn to bed. Jack had showered and was dressing for work, but had gotten no further than a pair of briefs.
“Three leaves. Don’t touch. Remember?”
“This had seven leaves. I thought it was safe.”
“Were they paired and pointed with one on the top?”
“That sounds right.”
“Poison sumac, then. There was a patch near the chimney.”
“Well, why the hell didn’t you get rid of it?”
“Because I like the look of the greenish-white berries it sometimes puts out. They’re pretty. Besides, I didn’t know you’d be digging around out there.”
“Normal people don’t let that kind of crap grow, Lucky. They have grass and shrubs. Your yard’s a death trap of brambles and poison.”
Normal people. Your yard. The words hurt.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think to cut it down. I’m not allergic to it.”
“Well, I am,” he snapped. “Look at me! It’s everywhere.” He pulled down his shorts in front, and sure enough, it was everywhere. She bit her lip. “Don’t you dare laugh!”
“I’m not.” She squeezed out more cream. “Call the doctor as soon as he opens and see if he’ll let you run by for a shot and a prescription. In a few hours you’ll feel fine.”
“Yeah, right. I’m not going to work like this. Hell, I’m long overdue to take a sick day.”
“No! You can’t do that!”
He peered at her. “And why can’t I?”
“Because Carolyn Carter is coming by to see you. I was going to tell you last night, but I didn’t plan on falling asleep. She found some strange things at her dad’s house, and I convinced her she should talk to you about them.”
He paused in his scratching. “Strange things?”
She told him about her visit and what Carolyn had found. “So you’ve got to go to work. You have to follow up on this.”
“Why did she confide in you?”
She explained about the newspaper clippings. “I can’t blame her for being afraid of what they suggest. Do you think there’s a connection between Miss Eileen’s disappearance and this extra wealth Mr. Bagwell accumulated?”
“I doubt it. Probably half the people in this town clipped articles about that case when it happened.”
“But how many do you think hid them from their wives in a cubbyhole in the closet?”
“Still not proof that he knew anything about the case.” He had her smear cream on every spot that even thought about being a bump, then pulled on his undershirt and socks. “I’ll look into it. Find that doctor’s number for me, would you?”
After she wrote down the number and placed it next to his cell phone, she followed as he went to the storage room and put on a clean shirt. She’d cleaned out the room so Jack could keep his clothes and belongings there.
“What if Miss Eileen was the woman he had the affair with? If they were lovers and she threatened to tell his wife, he could have killed her to shut her up. That doesn’t explain where he got all that money, though.” She tapped her teeth with her fingernail, thinking. “Maybe it’s blackmail money. He was a witness to the murder and he’d been blackmailing the killer.”
“For twenty-one years? Not likely.”
“Okay, that was stupid, but here’s something interesting….” She passed along what Shannon had told her about the man at the cleaners. “The two of them had a shouting match.”
“I know about it.” He finished dressing. At the front door he stuck his comb, change and billfold into his pants pockets and put on his shoes. He grabbed his raincoat from the stand behind the door. “Have breakfast before you leave, please. Neit
her one of us ate last night.”
Eating was the last thing on her mind. “Was his death really accidental? I know what the DA is saying publicly, but you’ve been working a lot of extra hours on the case. What do you think?”
“I think…that I need to get going.”
Damn him. Why couldn’t he, for once, be a husband first and a cop second? He’d let her do all the talking and hadn’t given her one useful bit of information.
“Jack, what if—?”
“Lucky, don’t fret over this. I said I’d look into it and I will. All you need to worry about is taking care of yourself and the baby. Don’t nibble. Eat a real breakfast. And don’t forget your vitamins.”
“I could be with you when you talk to Carolyn. She feels comfortable with me, and my schedule’s pretty loose this morning. What do you think?”
“No way. I don’t want you talking to Carolyn or anyone else. And you can’t tell what you know. Not to Leigh. Not to Shannon. Not to anyone. Understand?”
The request put her in an awkward spot with Leigh, but Carolyn’s trust and privacy also had to be considered, so she promised him she’d keep her mouth shut. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what you find out…will you?”
“Baby, you know I don’t like discussing the details of an investigation with you. Your imagination starts running wild.”
“That’s not fair! I helped put Terrell away for most of his adult life because I believed he murdered Miss Eileen. If it turns out he didn’t, I have the right to know. And frankly, this town needs to know. Everyone was so quick to condemn him.”
“This probably doesn’t have anything to do with that woman’s disappearance or Terrell Wade. You’re making another one of your leaps in logic.”
“Okay, I’m brainless. I admit it. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
“Lucky, you’re not brainless. You have one of the most creative minds of anyone I’ve ever met.”
That was nice. He’d never complimented her mind before. “You really think that? Honest?”
“Honest. You’re inquisitive, open-minded, in tune with your environment. You see things most other people never even notice. I wish I had half your intuition.”
“That’s so sweet.”
“I mean every word. Now I have to run.”
She walked out with him to the porch door. Beyond it, rain poured down. The river had become a muddy, churning mass.
“Bad,” he said, looking at it. “Is it likely to get worse?”
“Oh, pooh, that’s nothing. It’ll be down by tomorrow.” She waved away his concerns, her mind on something more important. “I’ll bet you’re going to find out that Mr. Bagwell was seeing Miss Eileen on the sly. You heard what my mother said about gossip at the time—that she had a married lover.” Something else occurred to her. “Oh, but I didn’t ask if Charlie Bagwell’s affair happened around the same time as Miss Eileen’s death. They could’ve been years apart. Dang it!”
Jack chuckled and kissed her on the forehead. “Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes. See you later.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
JACK DID INTERVIEW Carolyn Carter about the cash, deeds and gold certificates she’d found at her father’s house. Deciding this area of the case would best be handled by the IRS, he advised her to notify them. That had been a few weeks ago.
He’d heard since from Carolyn that the audit of Charlie Bagwell’s logging business would extend back just three years, a relief for her. She’d owe tax and penalties on unreported income from that time period only. Further action was unlikely since Bagwell was dead.
Jack continued to concentrate on the criminal aspects of the death and Bagwell’s possible connection to the theft of Indian artifacts on federal lands.
On a Saturday afternoon, seven weeks after the train had killed the man, additional reports came in from DFS. As far as Jack could see, nothing in the lab work shed new light on the case.
Bagwell was alive when the train hit him, which ruled out the possibility that he’d been murdered first and then dumped on the tracks. Jack scanned the pages. No evidence of trauma, other than the obvious. No suspicious findings in the blood, serum or tissues so far.
He rubbed his forehead, disappointed that there weren’t any results on a pair of small circular marks on Bagwell’s neck. Simple bruises? Or something more sinister?
He’d noticed the marks in one of the photographs. If Bagwell was incapacitated that night by a stun gun, which was Jack’s guess, the jolt of electricity from the prongs would have caused changes in the tissue at the cellular level.
The guns were readily available for sale in most states and on the Internet, but the marks they left—burns, bruises or scratches—could easily be dismissed during a forensic examination as the result of normal trauma.
He’d asked DFS to run further tests. That report might not be available for months, though. Sighing, Jack flipped the page.
The tool-mark analysis on the car tire showed the puncture was from a nail. No surprise there. But this was curious…nail head clipped and point achieved by filing, he read to himself. A nail with points on both ends. What the hell would that be used for?
His watch said four-forty, and he’d told Lucky he’d try to make it home by four. He put everything in the file and returned it to the top tray on Deaton’s desk. This case was going nowhere. If the screwup by his people on the scene had destroyed evidence, he might never solve it. That possibility stuck in his craw.
He tried to call Lucky as he walked through the division room, but his cell phone was dead again. He banged it with the heel of his hand and cursed, then banged it a few more times.
“Problems, Captain?” Detective Rogers asked, looking up from her desk.
“This piece of crap keeps going dead on me.”
She smiled. “I don’t think hitting it charges the battery, sir.”
“No, but it makes me feel better.”
“If you say so.”
He saw she was working on end-of-the-month burglary reports. “What’s the tally going to be?”
“The statements from the two men that patrol caught out on Sweetbriar Street helped clear four more. That makes eleven altogether.”
“Excellent. Have you and Detective Swain come up with anything on the Bagwell burglary?”
“No, not yet. Evidence is pretty thin. No finger-prints. No unfamiliar vehicles seen in the area. Without serial numbers on the electronics, I don’t see how we’ll have much luck recovering them. And we can’t look for what was taken from the storage shed, because nobody knows what he had in there. We’re pretty much at a dead end with that.”
Whatever Bagwell had been keeping in that shed was probably connected to his unexplained wealth. Too bad they didn’t know the contents. Jack had a feeling that if they did, it would explain a lot of things, including what had happened the night Bagwell died.
“Keep on it,” he told Rogers. “I’ll be in the chief’s office for a minute, then I’m gone for the day. If anything comes up and I’m needed, go through the radio dispatcher.”
“Oh, sir? Before you leave…” She pulled a folder from her stack. “You asked me to keep you posted on the investigation of the bomb threat we had out at the box factory. Something has me puzzled.”
Jack perched on the corner of her desk. “What’s the problem?”
“The call came in from a public phone downtown. The caller was probably male. He attempted to disguise his voice, as you’d expect, but it sounded to me like it had been more than simply muffled. So I sent a copy of the 911 tape to an expert down at the university, and I was right. The voice was electronically altered and the message most likely taped in advance and played into the receiver.”
“Somebody wanted to make extra-sure he wasn’t recognized.”
“That’s what I don’t understand. Is it usual to go to such lengths? I mean, I figured we were dealing with an employee who decided at the last minute he didn’t want to go to work, or some teenager with too much time
on his hands, but this took forethought.”
“If there really had been a bomb that morning, I’d say, yes, you should have expected it. But you’re right, for a crank call that’s going overboard. Can your expert clean up the tape?”
“He’s tried, but so far, no luck. The perp knew what he was doing. Should I keep working on this?”
“If something presents itself, follow up, but we have bigger cases that need our attention. I’ll leave it to your judgment.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Jack rose. “Have a good weekend,” she told him.
“Same to you, Rogers.”
Earlier, on a trip to the records room, he’d passed by the chief’s office and noticed his light on. He wanted to have a word with him before he left. The secretary didn’t work Saturdays, so Jack went straight through to the inner door.
“Hey, Jack, have a seat. Sorry we didn’t have you out on the road with us this morning picking up trash.”
Rolly Akers was a civic-minded man who got along well with everyone and whose good ol’ boy personality hid a keen intelligence. He’d probably been a hell of an investigator before moving into administration. With more than thirty years’ experience to his credit, he was eligible to retire, but nobody thought he’d do it anytime soon.
“Jolly Rolly” some people called him. Lucky and her sisters referred to him as “Officer Rolly,” as did most people who’d attended his safety programs as children. He still visited the schools a couple of times a month.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve been playing catch-up all month with these burglaries.”
“I understand. What can I help you with?”
Jack told him about the autopsy results and outlined the suggested connection between Bagwell and the missing Olenick woman. “I’m told you worked her case.”
“I did.”
“I know it’s unlikely Bagwell killed her, but from what I’ve been able to piece together from talking to his daughter, this affair her father had coincides time-wise with the disappearance of the victim. Bagwell and Olenick knew each other. They were members of the same church. If they were involved, that suggests a possible motive for her death.”
