The Shadows We Hide

by Allen Eskens

  “That’s just the heat,” Charlie said. “Makes my face flush red for no good reason.”

  Jeb stopped walking when he reached Charlie. “Well, maybe you might want to head inside where there’s air-conditioning,” he said, pointing at the Snipe’s Nest.

  Charlie broadened his smile and held his hand out for Jeb to shake. “That sounds like an excellent idea.” Jeb shook the man’s hand.

  Then Charlie turned his smile to me and reached out to shake my hand. I hesitated at first, but then raised my hand up, and he gripped it hard and gave it a short shake. “Good to meet you, Joe.”

  I didn’t know what to think as Charlie backtracked his way into the Snipe’s Nest. Jeb waited until Charlie was inside before turning to me and saying, “Let’s have a talk.”

  Chapter 12

  Jeb and I walked across the street to his squad car, where he leaned against the front fender and pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “Family squabble,” I said. “You know Charlie?”

  “I’ve heard of him but never met him until he stopped by this morning.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what did you hear about him?”

  Jeb chewed on my question before he answered. “I was friends with Jeannie, Toke’s wife. I remember her telling me some years back that Joe had a brother, and from what I understood, Joe and Charlie hadn’t been on good terms since they were kids.”

  “Did you ask Charlie where he was two nights ago?”

  “We asked.”

  “And?”

  “We’re looking into it.”

  “The same way you’re looking into me.”

  “We wouldn’t be doing our jobs if we didn’t ask those kinds of questions. No stone unturned, as they say.”

  “But you guys are thinking that Moody Lynch is your man?”

  Jeb smiled. “It didn’t take you long to come up with that one.”

  “I’m a reporter. It’s what I do. Besides, that’s probably the worst kept secret in town.”

  “You understand that I can’t confirm anything—even if I wanted to.”

  Another squad car pulled out of the parking lot of the Sheriff’s Office, heading our way at a slow roll. Deputy Calder gave a nod to Jeb as he passed, but for me he had nothing.

  “Are you sure it’s okay for you to be seen talking to me?” I said.

  “Why wouldn’t it be okay?”

  I leaned up against the squad car next to Jeb. “I get the feeling that Deputy Calder isn’t a fan of mine.”

  Jeb spoke in a slow rhythm that made me wonder if the man had ever been in a hurry in his life. His words seemed softened by the heat of the day, like butter left on the table. “Nathan’s all right. I’ve known him since grade school. He could stand to work on his people skills a bit, but trust me, there’s no better man to have on your side when things get hairy.”

  “So when he accuses me of murdering my father—that’s just bad people skills?”

  “It’s his first homicide. He’ll settle down.”

  “You’ve never handled a murder before?”

  “I have. Nathan and the sheriff…well, there isn’t much need for killing in this part of the country.”

  “But you’ve handled homicides?”

  “I did eight years in the army, the last two in the Criminal Investigation Command.”

  “Maybe you should be in charge of this investigation then.”

  “If I have input, the sheriff is more than happy to listen, but this is his show.”

  “Well, tell the sheriff that I think you should give a hard look at Charlie. There’s something wrong with that guy.”

  “What were you and Charlie squabbling about?”

  I didn’t want to tell him the truth—that we were arguing about my mother’s bad reputation—so I focused on something else Charlie had said. “He accused me of wanting to stake a claim in something. He acted like I should know what he was talking about, but I don’t have the foggiest.” I said, “I get the feeling I’m missing something.”

  Jeb folded his arms across his chest and turned his eyes to the pavement, his head slowly drifting back and forth as he gathered his thoughts. Then he said, “This morning, Charlie told us that he plans to seek guardianship of Angel. I think most people see that as a fine idea. Hell, he’s already met with social services to get the background investigation started—and he hasn’t even filed the petition yet.”

  “I take it you don’t see it as such a good thing?”

  “Jeannie didn’t like Charlie. She never told me why, but she didn’t trust him. If I recall, I think she once called him a soulless human being. Now I never met the man before today, but if Jeannie had that opinion of him, it makes it all the more likely that he’s only here to get his hands on the money.”

  “What money?”

  “The inheritance—the Hix estate.”

  “Deputy Calder said something about an inheritance when you guys were interrogating me this morning. What’s that all about?”

  “You call that an interrogation? Hell, that was nothing.”

  “Deputy, you’re dodging my question. What’s going on?”

  “Call me Jeb.”

  “Okay, Jeb. Why does Deputy Calder think that I killed Toke Talbert for an inheritance?”

  “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. What’s he talking about?”

  “Where do I start?” Jeb bit his lip as he pondered this answer, letting the seconds tick away to the point that I wanted to nudge the man. Then he said, “In a way, it’s all Nathan Calder’s fault—at least that’s how I see it.”

  “Come again?”

  “Keep in mind, this was back when I was still in the service, but the story I heard is that Nathan pulled this car over for a DUI, and the driver turned out to be Toke Talbert. He was just passing through town, had no reason to be here, but he ended up going to jail.”

  I thought back to the mug shot Allison had given to me. That would have been his arrest for DUI here in Buckley—his last arrest.

  “Because it was his third offense, we took his car through a forfeiture action. Toke was living out of that car. After he got out of jail, he had no way to leave town. Looking back now, I think everyone wishes that we’d just given him his car back and told him to keep driving.”

  “People say that Toke was an asshole,” I said.

  Jeb gave me a sideways glance and a grin. “You got that right.”

  “So how does a drifter like that come to have money?”

  “The way they all do; he married into it. He got a job as a body man down at Dub’s Repair.” Jeb gave a nod down the street as if I should be familiar with the establishment. “Toke may have been a jerk, but he could do wonders with body filler and paint. That’s how he met Jeannie Hix. She’d hit a fence post with her car and brought it into Dub’s to get it fixed. Things kind of went from there.”

  “But if Toke was such a jerk, why would any woman…”

  “Jeannie was a rebel back then. She probably got swept up in that bad-boy thing. Personally, I think she started dating Toke just to piss off her old man. But it got out of hand, and they ended up getting married. Toke could be a charmer if he wanted to be.”

  “And Jeannie had money?” I asked.

  “Arvin Hix, her dad, had the money. The Hix family owned some of the best river-bottom farmland in the state.” Jeb pointed west. “Head down the highway about eight miles and you’ll find their farm.”

  “He had money?” I said.

  “Hix passed on about a year ago. You see, Arvin Hix hated Toke. He told Jeannie that she wouldn’t get a penny of inheritance unless she divorced him. But then Arvin died without a will. I suspect he couldn’t bring himself to put his anger into writing. When he died, the law gave the whole kit-and-caboodle to Jeannie.”

  “I read about Jeannie’s death when I was researching,” I said. “She died six months ago, right?�
�

  Jeb nodded, his eyes again fixed on the pavement at his feet. I waited for him to say something more, but he didn’t. So I asked, “How’d she die?”

  He tightened his lips as if fighting to hold back something deep. Then he said, “She committed suicide. Angel found her hanging in their horse barn.” Jeb stumbled a little on his words as he spoke, and I could sense the history between them.

  “Angel found her?”

  “Yeah. Really did a number on that girl.”

  “Why would Jeannie…I mean, did she leave a note or anything?”

  “Jeannie was always an anxious girl, and after she had that falling-out with her father, well I guess the anxiety just got worse. She left a note, talking about how Arvin’s death put her into a depression that she couldn’t climb out of. After she and Toke moved out to the farm, we got at least three calls from Jeannie because of her panic attacks. EMTs would show up, and she would be curled up in a ball trying to breathe.”

  “You knew Jeannie pretty well, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah…I did.”

  Given the melancholy that showed on his face, I left it at that. We stood there in silence until it became too awkward for me to handle, and I said, “When Jeannie died, I take it she left everything to Toke?”

  “Jeannie didn’t have a will either,” he said. “Toke got the farm by law. And now that Toke’s dead…” Jeb looked at me as if it was my turn to say something, but I just blinked at him. “If you really are his son…”

  Then it hit me. “Holy crap,” I whispered.

  “You and Angel.”

  “I had no idea. I swear, I didn’t…”

  “So you see why Nathan thinks that you might be a suspect.”

  “I would never…I know you don’t know me from Adam, but I would never…”

  “It’s a lot of money.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  “I don’t know the exact figure. The guy you need to talk to is Bob Mullen. He’s the attorney handling the estate. Jeannie worked for him as a paralegal before she…”

  “And what about Angel?” I asked. “I’ve heard rumors that she’s in a bad way.”

  “You know, Joe, I did some checking on you this morning. I found that police report you mentioned—the one where Toke hit your mother. Everything seems to match up with what you said happened. As far as I can tell, you just might be Toke’s son.”

  “I think that’s a pretty good bet,” I said.

  Jeb turned his head to look at me, pausing again before saying what he had on his mind. “I’m going to tell you something, Joe…I’m probably crossing a line here, so I’d appreciate it if you don’t hang me out to dry on this.”

  I nodded my agreement.

  “The way I see it, if you are Angel’s half-brother, you have a right to know—Angel’s in a coma, up in Mankato.”

  “A coma? What happened?”

  “I was the first one out to the farm the night Toke died. I found Angel in her bedroom—nonresponsive. She was barely breathing, and there was an empty prescription bottle on a table near the bed. Clonazepam. It was Jeannie’s prescription. Toke should have thrown it away. He had no business keeping meds like that around the house.”

  “Will she be okay?”

  Jeb didn’t answer.

  “So that’s why you think Charlie’s in town.”

  Jeb nodded. “I doubt if Charlie could pick Angel out of a lineup if he had to. Toke dies, leaving all that money to Angel, but Angel’s only fourteen. She can’t legally do anything with the farm. Whoever becomes her guardian will control her share of the estate. I think that’s why Charlie crawled out of the woodwork.”

  Then Jeb turned to face me, planting one arm on the top of his car. He lowered his sunglasses to lock his eyes onto mine and he said, “I’m telling you all this because I think Angel deserves better than what she’s getting. If I find out that you are just here for her money, I’ll…” He didn’t finish his thought. He didn’t have to.

  I said, “If I went up to visit Angel, do you think they’d let me see her?”

  Jeb smiled at that. He struck me as a thoughtful man, the kind of guy who had seen enough in his lifetime to walk with deliberate steps. I could see him thinking on my question, waiting for the heavy stones of right and wrong to balance out. Then he said, “I was planning on heading up there tomorrow. You can ride along with me if you want. I’m willing to bet that we can get you in to see her.”

  Chapter 13

  The library in Buckley was smaller than my apartment, and empty of people except for a mother reading children’s books to her three docile kids. I sat down at one of the two computer carrels and fired up the Internet. My first search—Charlie Talbert.

  Charlie lived large on the Internet, the kind of guy who found celebrity in having his name appear in as many places as possible, self-promoting tripe that blared his accomplishments like a row of heralding trumpets. Uncle Charlie wanted the world to see him as a successful businessman, and he seemed to excel at getting his picture taken with famous people: politicians, movie stars, even a former governor of Minnesota. At first glance, he appeared to live on the opposite end of the spectrum from his brother, Joe.

  But I was an AP reporter; research was my stock in trade. I knew the false fronts that people could present when they had something to hide, so I took my time, clicking past what Charlie wanted me to see to find what he wanted to hide.

  Nearly two hours had passed before I found my first bread crumb, a news report about a fire at a warehouse in St. Paul three years ago. The building housed the offices and manufacturing floor of a company developing a new form of prosthetic limb, and a man named Casey Levin died in the fire. The article reported that the origins of the fire were under investigation. Charlie’s name came up only once, when the article identified him as a minority partner in the company and the beneficiary of a million-dollar personal insurance policy on the dead man.

  I clicked around looking for a follow-up story or anything that might give me more information on the fire, but came up with bubkes. So I decided to research two other subjects that I had on my mind: comas and clonazepam. On comas, I found a great deal of information but very little that helped, as it all seemed intentionally vague. Yes, comas were bad, and yes, if it was bad enough, you’d die. They could last hours or they could last months. They could result in total brain damage or no brain damage at all. After an hour of searching, I felt like I had found nothing concrete on any of the sites.

  On the other hand, I found a ton of good information on clonazepam, an anti-panic medication that had recently become a go-to date-rape drug. It could disorient a person, take away their inhibitions, knock them out, and hide the crime with a nice blanket of amnesia. Too much of the drug could put you in a coma or kill you.

  As I read about clonazepam, my mind drifted to thoughts of Lila; she had been raped in high school, waking up in the backseat of her own car, naked and unable to remember what happened. She always suspected that she had been drugged, and after reading about clonazepam, I wondered if that had been the pill they used.

  I had been lost in my research for hours and didn’t realize how much time had passed until I felt the sting of fatigue in my eyes and the pang of hunger in my stomach. I had worked right through the lunch hour, and dinnertime was fast approaching. I needed food, so I headed to the Snipe’s Nest. The bar was about half full of people, one of whom was my Uncle Charlie, sitting at a high-top in the corner eating fries from a red basket and watching the Twins on the TV on the wall. He gave me a cold look as I passed. Vicky was still working the bar, shuffling food orders from the kitchen and mixing drinks. She smiled at me as she passed with a big plate of chicken wings.

  I took a seat on the same stool I’d sat on earlier. Beside me, a couple of women, one in her midfifties and the other a decade younger, leaned against the bar in a stance that suggested they were awaiting food orders. The older one, the one closest to me, said, “That’s him down th
ere.”

  I glanced at her in the mirror above the bar and saw that she was pointing at Uncle Charlie.

  “He knows Clint Eastwood and Governor Pawlenty. I saw the pictures online.”

  “That’s Toke’s brother?” the younger woman said, twisting her neck to get a better look.

  “Yeah,” the older one said. “He’s wants guardianship of that poor girl, God bless him. He’s exactly what she needs after what she’s been through. I met him when he stopped by the office yesterday, asking if I can speed up the background study, and I told him that I can’t do anything until a petition is filed. And today—voila—he files a petition.”

  “That couldn’t have worked out any better,” the younger one said.

  “I think the judge is anxious to get him appointed. Someone has to look out for Angel. This might be the fastest background study I’ve ever done.”

  “Who’d have thought that Toke Talbert could have a brother who knows Clint Eastwood?”

  “Well, Cain had Abel, didn’t he?”

  Vicky stepped back behind the bar, gave a couple of sandwich baskets to the ladies, and they retreated with their food to a nearby booth.

  “Drink?” she asked me.

  “A beer,” I said. “Something local.”

  “Coming right up.” She poured a beer and placed it on a coaster in front of me. “Here you go, Little Toke.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t even start. I’m Joe. Just plain Joe.”

  I heard someone in the booth behind me say Toke. I glanced over my shoulder at three guys drinking beer, construction workers given the paint on their jeans and the worn shine on the tips of their steel-toed boots. One of them, a guy wearing a Pink Floyd T-shirt, looked at me like I was a crossword he couldn’t figure out. Then to Vicky he said, “How about another round over here?”

  “You might want to pace yourself, Harley,” Vicky said as she reached under the bar for three bottles of Budweiser. “This ain’t a race.” She set the bottles on the bar and opened them.

  “Bring ’em here.”

  “You want beer, get off your ass and come and get it.”