Bitter Roots
A Bitter Root Mystery
C.J. Carmichael
Bitter Roots
Copyright © 2017 C.J. Carmichael
The Tule Publishing Group, LLC
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-945879-90-6
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Author’s Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Bitter Root Mystery Series
About the Author
Author’s Acknowledgments
I hope my readers enjoy reading Bitter Roots as much as I enjoyed the adventure of writing it. Thanks so much to the team of people who smoothed the way, especially Jane Porter, my dear friend and publisher extraordinaire, and Meghan Farrell, Lindsey Stover and Michelle Morris from the fun and fabulous Tule Publishing company.
I’m so grateful to the team of editors who helped refine and polish the story: Linda Style, Helena Newton and Marlene Engel. Thanks to Frauke Spanuth of Croco Designs for my evocative book cover, and much gratitude also to Lee Hyat and Sharlene Moore who help me with all manner of promotional matters. The fabulous team at Wax Creative, headed by Emily Cotler, manages my website and newsletter distributions-I would not want to be in this business without all of you beside me!
I also want to thank my beta readers Michael Fitzpatrick, Susan Luciuk, Gloria Fournier, and Leslie Archibald. You go first to smooth the way of those who follow!
Chapter One
Zak Waller, dispatcher for the Lost Trail, Montana, Sheriff’s Office, expected the morning after Halloween to be busy, but he hadn’t anticipated a homicide case. The call came in early morning just after he’d made coffee.
As was often the case, he’d been the first into the office, and was still the only one here. The sheriff wasn’t what you’d call a morning person and Deputy Butterfield, who was nearing sixty, never saw the point in working if his boss wasn’t around to notice.
Usually Deputy Black was punctual, but she’d only been on the job about three months so there was still time for bad habits to develop. A former barrel racer, she’d brought her drive and competitiveness into this new career with her. Though she obviously thought she was hot stuff—she was tall, long-limbed, in great shape, and in possession of a confident smile—Zak himself hadn’t quite figured out what to make of her.
Earlier Zak had checked the messages and recorded two complaints of Halloween-style vandalism. A report of some flattened pumpkins on the front porch of the library, and, as happened every year, an egged front window for retired schoolteacher Miss Christensen. Both would have to wait.
“Can you slow down and repeat that please?” Zak said to the freaked-out nurse on the other end of the line.
“There’s a dead woman on the walkway.” Her voice was a little calmer this time. “I found her on my way to work. She’s been beaten. Badly. Poor, poor thing.” She gave a quiet sob before adding, “Probably been dead for hours. She’s so cold...but rigor hasn’t set in, so...”
Zak made notes, grateful it was a nurse who had made the discovery, though this one seemed on the verge of losing her professional calm. From his training at the academy—which he’d finally convinced the sheriff to pay for after two years of working and learning on the job with precious little in the way of instruction—Zak knew lots of people blanked out, or panicked in a tragedy. In the simulated emergency situations during his training he’d scored well for his ability to focus logically on what needed to be done.
That same urgent yet calm focus came over him now.
“Don’t touch her more than medically necessary. Be careful not to contaminate the scene. Can you give me your name and number please?”
The nurse did so quickly. “You need to send someone right away. It—she looks awful. It’s not right that she’s just lying out here. Can I cover her up at least?”
“Don’t touch anything. I’ll have someone there soon.” He entered the location, the medi-clinic on Tumbleweed Road, into his logbook. “You say you’re in the rear parking lot?”
“Y-yes. Her—the body—was pushed up against the back entrance.”
“Do you recognize her, Farrah?” In a county of less than three thousand citizens, this was more than possible.
“No, but she’s young. Early twenties. It’s hard to be sure though because...her face is pretty bad.”
“I’m going to hang up now to call this in. Stay calm, help will be there soon.” He heard voices in the background, someone shouting, What happened? “Keep any passersby well back from the scene. Can you do that, Farrah?”
“O-okay.”
He called the sheriff first, catching him on his way to the office. “Farrah Saddler, the nurse at the medi-clinic on Tumbleweed, found a woman’s body on the street when she showed up for work this morning. Said it looks like the woman’s been beaten to death.”
“What the hell?”
Zak forgave him his confusion. In all his career Sheriff Ford had probably fielded only a handful of calls like this one. Yes, death occurred here. Lots of it. But potential homicide? Very rarely.
Zak repeated everything Farrah Saddler had told him.
“Okay. I’m only a few minutes away from the scene. Send Butterfield out here. Hell, might as well send Black too. You said the woman looked beaten? Make sure Black has the evidence kit. Oh, and don’t forget to call Doc Pittman.”
Doctor Pittman was the local coroner and Zak had his number next on the list. He caught the doctor, a widower in his mid to late fifties, at his breakfast table. Pittman took the call with the measured calm of a man who had weathered a good many emergencies in his decades of being the only doctor in town. Pittman assured Zak he’d be at the scene pronto.
“Thanks, Doc.” Next Zak called Butterfield, who claimed to be on his way to work, even though Zak could hear his wife talking in the background.
Just as Zak was about to move on to Deputy Black, she stepped into the office. Zak had scored top marks in his anti-bias training, too, but he could not help appreciating the snug fit of her regulation trousers and shirt. She had her golden hair up in a bun, which formed a handy backstop for her aviator sunglasses.
“What are you staring at?” She slung her jacket on a peg, then moved toward the coffee machine.
The woman had attitude, no doubt about it.
“Don’t bother pouring that coffee, Deputy. We just had a call—”<
br />
“Damn, I hate Halloween. But I’m sure the outraged citizen who had their car egged, or their window broken can wait until I get some caffeine into my system.”
“This wasn’t about vandalism. We have a suspected homicide.”
She froze, cup only half-full, then set down the pot. “Homicide.”
He glanced down at his logbook. “Call came in at seven-fifty. A nurse found a body behind the medi-clinic on Tumbleweed. The woman was dead, her body already cold. The nurse said she’d been beaten.” Zak paused before adding, “The sheriff wants you to bring the evidence kit.”
“Homicide,” Deputy Black said again. Then she smiled. “And I didn’t think there’d be any action in this one-horse town.” She poured a generous splash of milk into her cup, then downed the coffee in several swallows. When she set down the empty mug she clucked at him with mock sympathy.
“Poor Zak. You have to stay here and mind the phones while we have all the fun.”
Zak shrugged. Black often tried to goad him, but as the runt of a litter of four boys—the three oldest much taller and broader than him—he’d learned to never rise to tossed bait.
Black’s expression shifted from smug to puzzled. “I don’t get it. If you’d applied for the deputy position when Redford retired, you would have been a shoo-in. Not that I’m complaining, since I’d be out of luck if you had. But why the hell didn’t you go for it?”
Zak hated having to state the obvious, but Black obviously wasn’t going to let this go. “I didn’t want the job.”
“You actually like being a lowly dispatcher?”
Zak’s answering smile might be a front, but no way was he going to let on his true feelings about his profession, certainly not to Black of all people.
“What’s wrong with you? You’re reasonably smart. Not in terrible shape. If you made an effort, in ten years you could probably be sheriff.”
“If I don’t want to be a deputy, what makes you think I want to be sheriff?”
She stared at him. Curled her upper lip. “You don’t make sense.”
“Great. I love being an enigma.”
Finally he’d shut her up. She snatched the evidence kit and her jacket and left.
Chapter Two
When seated at his law office desk on the second floor of a modest brick building on Tumbleweed Road, Justin Pittman had a clear view of the single-story building across the street that housed both the local medi-clinic and the town’s one small pharmacy. So he couldn’t help but notice when the sheriff’s black SUV pulled up, and the man himself jumped out to the street with significantly more energy than usual.
Sheriff Ford wasn’t one for wasted effort, something had to be going on. Justin’s hunch was confirmed when Deputy Butterfield showed up a few minutes later, followed shortly afterward by the town’s newest deputy. He hadn’t met her yet, but his father had approved the hire, stating Nadine Black was exactly what this town needed.
A former rodeo competitor, Nadine was attractive, in her early thirties...and single, Justin’s father had made a point of emphasizing.
Of course this had been before Willow showed up in town, with her daughter in tow.
Justin pulled the cord on the window blinds, raising them to the highest level. It wasn’t often the full force of the law in Lost Trail congregated in one place, unless it was after hours for beer and burgers at the Dew Drop Inn. What the hell was going on out there? Sheriff Ford and Deputy Butterfield had moved to the back of the clinic, out of sight. A small group of onlookers was quickly assembling, and soon the new female deputy was waving people out of the way and yellow-taping around the back of the clinic.
And then a very familiar sedan appeared—his father’s silver Volvo. Justin’s dad emerged from the driver’s seat carrying the black case he always took when he was acting in his capacity as local coroner. Someone had died.
Justin checked his watch. His first appointment wasn’t for an hour, which left him plenty of time to indulge his curiosity. He left his office and walked through the empty reception room. His hopes of eventually hiring a receptionist/assistant dimmed with each year that passed since he’d hung up his shingle in Lost Trail. There was hardly enough business in this county to support him—now his wife and child, too—let alone a second employee.
A few times he’d almost offered the position to Willow, who was having a difficult time adjusting to her new role as stay-at-home mom. But she would hate the mundane clerical work, and he suspected she wouldn’t be very good at it either.
Willow thrived on excitement, travel, action. Life in Lost Trail, Montana, had held little appeal to her when she’d been growing up and it held even less now. But she had a daughter to think of and he had his father.
So for now Lost Trail would have to do for all of them.
Justin hurried down the stairs to the ground level. On the main floor landing the office door to Dr. Edmond’s suite was closed, but Justin could still hear the soft grinding of the dentist’s drill and smell the distinctive antiseptic odor.
He pushed through the door to the street and winced as the frosty air on this first day of November hit his face. Justin buttoned his sports jacket as he walked across the street. His father had joined the sheriff and Deputy Butterfield well beyond the taped barrier. Justin eased his way through the onlookers, until he came face-to-face with the new deputy.
“Hi, I’m Justin, Dr. Pittman’s son.”
She didn’t look impressed.
“I work across the street.” He nodded to the window front with his name embossed in gold letters, Justin Pittman P.C. Attorney at Law.
Still not impressed.
“You need to keep back, sir. We have an investigation going on.”
“Someone’s died, have they?” He caught a glimpse of his father and tried to catch his eye. But his father was focused on something—or someone—just out of Justin’s field of view.
At the deputy’s impassive shrug, Justin felt a snap of annoyance. Butterfield or Ford would have given him the inside scoop right away.
“It’s not my place to say. I suggest you go back to your office. We won’t be releasing details for a while yet.”
The deputy moved on, pushing the crowd back from the taped-off area. Gertie Humphrey, who worked at the gas station convenience store, patted his arm.
“They say it’s a young woman. Beaten to death.”
Justin’s heart stalled irrationally before he reminded himself that he’d left Willow, sipping coffee at the breakfast table, only thirty minutes earlier. “Does anyone know who she is?”
“No one’s positive, but Cody—who works at Lolo’s—figures it might be that new laborer they hired at the Raven Christmas Tree Farm. Riley’s her first name, not sure about the last.”
“And she’d been beaten?”
“Cody got there before the tape went up. He said her face was all swollen and caked with blood.” Gertie shivered. “Who would do such a thing?”
A blast of wind scattered some dead cottonwood leaves across the sidewalk. Gertie tugged her toque firmly over her wiry gray hair, and then moved on, no doubt to share her juicy tidbits with more of the fine citizens of Lost Trail.
Justin gave one last glance at the scene beyond the police tape. He felt badly for his father, having to deal with such an ugly situation. In many respects Lost Trail, Montana, was a model American ranching town. Friendly neighbors, well-kept properties, a charming main street designed to attract tourists from the neighboring ski hill.
But Justin knew—both professionally and personally—about Lost Trail’s darker side. No doubt his father had treated many female patients who’d suffered a beating—often at the hand of a violent man who claimed to love her. But to Justin’s knowledge, this was the first time one of them had died.
The drama of the day was exhilarating but Zak never forgot for a moment that the cause was the violent death of a young woman. He hadn’t known Riley Concurran personally—apparently she was relatively new
to Lost Trail—but he still felt badly. According to her California driver’s license she was only twenty-two. Missed calls on the cell phone that had been found in her back pocket had been traced to Kenny Bombard, the new manager at the Raven Christmas Tree Farm. He’d hired Riley as a temporary employee about a month ago.
Zak had only a moment to wonder what his school friend Tiff Masterson, who now lived in Seattle, would make of this—more death on her family’s farm, though this time at least, not someone she loved—before the sheriff called to ask him to track down Riley’s next of kin.
“Her cell phone is one of those cheap, prepaid models. Only has a few numbers: her boss and Lolo’s Pizza. So that’s no use. You’ll have to follow up on the address from her driver’s license. Got a pen?”
“Sure do, Sheriff.” He jotted down the address, then added quickly before the sheriff disconnected, “Um...do you know the cause of death yet?”
“She’d taken a couple hard blows to the head. Doc says she would have lost consciousness immediately and probably died a short time after. He also suspects she was moved during that period. But his preliminary report won’t be ready until later tomorrow.”
Finding next of kin proved harder than expected. The address on Riley Concurran’s driver’s license turned out to belong to an old school friend, Emily Blake, who hadn’t seen Riley in over four years.
All the young woman could tell Zak was that Riley’s father had never been part of her life and that her mother had died five years ago, four months before Riley’s eighteenth birthday. There were no other living relatives as far as Emily knew.
“My parents let Riley live with us for a year after her mom died. It was supposed to be only for four months, until she turned eighteen, but Riley was super helpful with housecleaning and stuff, and so Mom let her stay longer.”
“When did she move out?”
“About halfway through our first year of college. We both qualified for state scholarships, but Riley met this guy who really messed with her head. She was super cute, but shy. She hadn’t dated much before she met Connor. I never understood what she saw in him. He was a mean dude.”
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