by Laurel Dewey
Jane gently took hold of Emily’s shoulders. “Emily, I honestly don’t know!” She paused, considering how to best approach the subject. “Look, we’re masquerading as mother and daughter to hide your identity. That tells me that the Department senses a need for caution. So, I keep my eyes open, just like you should.”
“But I don’t know what he looks like! It could be anybody!”
Jane couldn’t disagree with the kid. “That’s why you stick close to me.”
They headed home, locked up the house and drove the five short blocks down Main Street to the Mountain Melon Market. As they got out of the car, a voice sounding like coarse gravel rattled across the street.
“I like your bumper stickers!”
Jane quickly turned. It was the town sheriff, a large, meaty fellow with thinning hair and a sallow complexion. “Excuse me?” Jane said, catching herself.
“You brake for butterflies, eh? I’ve never seen that particular one!” the sheriff said in a throaty tone, observing Jane’s car.
Jane remembered the annoying “I Brake for Butterflies” bumper sticker. “Well, I brake unless they smash into my windshield when I’m driving. Then it’s just tough luck, you know?” Jane turned to Emily, “Come on!”
The ting-ting of the front door bell rang out a cheerful greeting when Jane opened the door. She quickly surveyed the store. It was your typical small, mountain town grocery store: eight aisles surrounded by purring frozen food units. Jane grabbed a cart and started down the far left aisle near one of the banks of frozen food that was next to an old refrigerator with the sign “BAIT” taped across the front. The sheriff entered the store and stole a glance at Emily, who looked back at him and smiled.
“Patty,” Jane said abruptly, “come on.”
The sheriff observed Jane’s interaction with Emily before turning to the guy behind the counter. “How’s it goin’?” said the sheriff with a jolly ring in his voice.
“Hey, Sheriff George!” replied the guy, putting down his newspaper.
“Startin’ to feel like summer, isn’t it?” the sheriff said, making conversation.
“Yup. I think the cherries are gonna be early this year.”
The store was small enough that Jane could hear every word. The banal back-and-forth began to grind on her nerves as she plucked one frozen entree after another out of the case and tossed it into her cart.
Emily stared at the growing pile of frozen food. “We need vegetables.”
“Okay,” Jane replied. “Go pick what you want.”
Emily trotted down the aisle and out of Jane’s sight. Within seconds, Jane heard a saccharin voice coming from the produce department.
“Well, looky here! Patty Calver! We meet again!” Jane closed the freezer door and muffled a frustrated “shit” under her voice. “Are you down here all by your lonesome or is your mom with you?”
“She’s over getting frozen food for us,” Emily said.
“Frozen?” Kathy said, sounding a bit guarded.
Jane swung her cart around the produce aisle. “Patty!” Jane said abruptly. “Did you get what you need?”
Kathy stiffened slightly in response to Jane’s crusty words. “Well, there’s your mom!” Kathy said, false friendliness dripping from her cement smile. “How’s it goin’?”
“Just great,” Jane replied, grabbing a bag of chips and a large container of salsa from the shelf.
“My goodness!” Kathy said, looking into Jane’s cart. “That’s a lot of frozen food.”
“Well, that house you got us has a big freezer!” Jane said, intoning her own version of false friendliness as she deposited two six-packs of cola in the cart along with a dozen eggs.
“Mom!” a child’s voice rang out from another aisle.
“What is it, Heather?” Kathy asked.
“Come here!” Heather commanded. “I want you to see this nail polish!”
“Why don’t you come over here and show it to me, darling?” Kathy replied.
An overexaggerated sound of exasperation came from the child as she pounded her little feet down the aisle and around the corner. Heather was one of those kids that adults refer to as “precocious” when they don’t want to use the word “bratty.” She was dressed in a trendy outfit with a country western flair. Her long blond hair was tied into a braid and secured with a red barrette that matched her shirt. She stuck her left hand out into the air, fingertips pointed down. Each fingernail was painted with a different color of fresh polish. “Which one of these is the prettiest?” Heather asked her mother in a bitchy tone.
“Heather,” Kathy said, glossing over her daughter’s behavior.
“I’d like you to meet Mrs. Calver and her daughter, Patty. They’re living in the old Cooper house.”
“Hello,” Heather said with no enthusiasm. Turning to her mother, she jabbed her hand back into her face. “Mom! Which color do you like?”
“I think they are all very pretty colors.”
“Don’t be stupid! Which one will look best with my new line dancing outfit?”
Kathy turned to Jane. “Heather took up country line dancing three years ago. It’s such a fun activity for kids! Do you line dance, Patty?”
“No,” Emily said quietly, placing several bags of vegetables into Jane’s cart.
“You really should give it a try. I’m sure Heather and her friends would love to teach you—”
“Mom!” Heather exclaimed, obviously not happy with her mother’s invitation.
Jane could not stand another second. “It’s okay, Heather!” Jane said, with a hefty dose of attitude. “We don’t want to put you out!”
Heather glared at Jane, then turned to Emily. “What happened to your head?”
“Heather,” Kathy said, her smile grinding into her facial muscles.
Emily looked the girl straight in the eye. “I fell off my bike. My tall bike.”
“It’s gonna leave a scar!” Heather said with a tenor of righteous contempt.
“Now, sweetheart,” Kathy said, gently touching her daughter on her shoulder.
“It’s true! She’s gonna have a big ol’ scar on the side of her head!”
Emily pulled closer to Jane, who quickly moved her cart forward. “We’ve gotta get going!” Jane stated with agitation.
“Oh, wait!” Kathy said, pulling a business card from the side pocket of her purse. “Here’s the number of our family doctor. Dr. Armstrong. He’s a prince. When it comes time for Emily to have her stitches out, you call him.”
Jane looked at the card. “Right. We better get this frozen food back to the house.” Jane and Emily started down the aisle when Sheriff George rounded the corner. Jane quickly pulled her leather jacket around her chest to make sure her holster and Glock were covered.
“Well, we meet again!” Sheriff George exclaimed.
“Anne, this is our sheriff!” Kathy said, getting between the two of them. “Sheriff, this is Anne Calver and her daughter, Patty. They just took residence today in the old Cooper house.”
Sheriff George shook Jane’s hand with gusto. “Glad to have you two in town!” He bent down to shake Emily’s hand. “And hello to you, Patty. My goodness, are you as smart as you are pretty?”
Emily looked at Jane for assistance, then turned back to the sheriff. “Yes?” she said, not sure of her answer.
The sheriff let out a hearty belly laugh. “I never had anyone answer that question before! Where are you two from?”
“The Denver area,” Jane answered, playing it cool.
“Denver! Well, I guess you’re in for a bit of a change livin’ here in Peachville! Is there a Mr. Calver?” asked the sheriff.
Kathy looked eagerly at Jane. It was painfully obvious she wanted to ask the same question. Jane was just about to speak when Emily spoke up.
“He died in the Calgary Stampede in Canada and he’s buried in Denver,” Emily said, sounding overly rehearsed. No one said a word. The silence was so thick, you could cut it with a chain
saw. Emily decided to add information. “He wasn’t a rodeo clown. He was a rodeo cowboy. Mom didn’t want to marry the rodeo clown even though he made her laugh.”
For once in her life, Jane was speechless.
“Well, Mrs. Calver,” Sheriff George said, slightly stunned by Emily’s information, “we’re glad you chose Peachville to start your new life.”
Jane nodded and pressed on. Emily tried to slide around the sheriff but his girth forced her to bump against a shelf holding pencil boxes. Her elbow dislodged several of the boxes, bringing them crashing down and spreading colored pencils across the linoleum. Emily turned to the falling pencils and fixated on them. Her pupils enlarged in fear as she stood paralyzed.
The child’s awkward reaction didn’t escape either Kathy or the sheriff. Jane noted their reaction and gently placed her hand on Emily’s shoulder. She jumped and pulled away from Jane in a fearful posture.
“You alright there, sweetheart?” asked the sheriff.
It took Emily several seconds to get her bearings. She realized she’d zoned out and didn’t know what to do. “Yes. I’m fine. Sorry about the pencils.”
“Well, darlin’, there’s nothing to pickin’ ’em up,” the sheriff said reassuringly as he knelt down and collected the pencils.
Kathy stared at Jane, her smile slightly fading. Her look was one of concern mixed with apprehension. Jane caught Kathy’s penetrating eye and felt her gut tighten. Jane somberly purchased the grocery items and quickly left the store with Emily.
“I’m sorry,” Emily said quietly, upset with herself as she got in the car.
“It’s okay,” Jane replied in a gentle voice, putting the last of the food in the car.
Jane got in the Subaru, shoved the key in the ignition and quickly backed out of the parking space.
“I can’t believe that happened in front of them,” Emily said, deeply concerned.
“It’s okay, Emily. You can’t help it.”
“They must think I’m weird.”
“Oh, believe me kid, I have a strong feeling that at least one of them is more concerned about me right now.”
Chapter 18
By the time Jane and Emily piled all the frozen food from the Mountain Melon Market into their freezer and unpacked their suitcases, it was almost eight o’clock. For a house that sat right on the main drag, Jane had to admit that it was very quiet. Between the park across the street and their backyard that led into the open space, it could almost be considered pastoral.
When Emily announced that she was hungry, Jane let her choose which frozen entree she wanted. While it cooked, they sat across from each other at the kitchen counter and devoured a bag of tortilla chips with salsa. The entire time, Emily hardly said a word. Jane couldn’t stand it any longer. “Emily, I told you back in the car, it’s okay. I’m not mad at you for what happened at the market.”
“I know you’re not mad,” Emily said, spinning her tortilla chip slowly through the salsa. “I’m mad at myself. What’s happening to me?”
Jane looked at Emily and felt as though she were looking in the mirror. “Your mind is holding on to the memory of whatever you witnessed that night. But it’s like a curtain comes down to protect you when you start to see certain things.”
Emily thought for a second. “Did you see my mommy and daddy?”
Jane popped open a can of cola. “I didn’t go to the house that night when it happened.”
“So, you don’t know what they looked like?”
“I saw photographs,” Jane reluctantly offered, taking a sip of cola.
“They took pictures!” Emily was outraged.
“They have to take pictures. It’s, unfortunately, part of the procedure.”
“Where are the pictures?”
Jane hadn’t yet looked inside the Lawrence case envelope that Weyler gave her but she hoped the crime scene photos were not included. “The pictures are in a file cabinet at Denver Police Headquarters.”
“People just look at them?” Emily was incensed by the thought.
“They look at them so they can try and solve the case,” Jane said in a gentle tone.
“You saw them?” Jane nodded. “Did Mommy look frightened?” Emily’s throat caught.
Jane’s memory flashed on the brutality of Patricia Lawrence’s murder, with part of her eye cut out of her head. “Your mom looked peaceful. Like she was sleeping.”
Emily relaxed. She bought the lie and felt a bit more at ease. Jane removed her jacket to reveal her shoulder holster and Glock handgun.
“Do you have to wear that all the time?” Emily asked.
“Yeah,” Jane replied, laying the gun on the counter.
“You should hide it in another place. It’s summer. People are gonna wonder why you’re always wearing jackets.”
Jane knew the kid was right. These smalltown folks were sure to question her penchant for bulky jackets on a hot day. “Maybe I could tuck it in my jeans.”
“Or put it in your purse,” Emily added.
“I don’t own a purse.”
“How about a fanny pack?”
“Don’t have one of those either.”
“I bet they sell them in town.”
Jane agreed and passed a small notepad to Emily. “Make a note of it.” Jane looked down at her bandaged hand. “I probably should lose this. Between your bandage and mine, we look like the walking wounded.” Jane unwrapped her bandage.
“Shouldn’t you go to the doctor for that?” Emily asked.
“I can’t go to the doctor. And neither can you.”
Emily looked astonished. “But Kathy gave you that card—”
“I know,” Jane said. “But we can’t do it. It’s too risky. There’d be questions and I’m sure he’d ask for your medical records.”
“Who’s gonna take out my stitches?”
“You’re looking at her.”
Emily’s eyes widened. “Do you know how to do it?”
“Sure.”
Emily eyed Jane, full of skepticism. “Have you done it before?”
“No.”
“So, how do you know you can do it?”
“It can’t be that difficult. It’s gotta be like sewing, just in reverse.”
“Do you sew?”
“No. But I’ve seen people sew.”
“You’ve seen people cook, too.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “You have ten more days before they have to come out. It’ll be fine. Trust me.” With that, Jane unwound the last layer of her bandage and revealed her hand. It was slightly pale, but aside from a few small blisters, it was in fairly good shape. “I can take care of my hand and I can take care of your head.”
“Yeah,” Emily said, full of doubt. “You didn’t have any stitches in your hand.”
Jane and Emily divided the large chicken pot pie that the kid chose for dinner. By 9:30, Emily was tired and ready for sleep. After tucking her into her bed, Jane checked the lock on the front and back door, and walked down the hall to her bedroom. She slipped into a cotton nightshirt and propped some pillows on the bed. Dragging her leather satchel onto the bedspread, she lit a cigarette, pulled an ashtray onto the side table and lifted out the Lawrence case envelope from the satchel. Amidst the glut of paperwork, there were two line drawings depicting the multitude of wounds on both victims. On a separate sheet, Jane found a collection of photocopied crime scene photos. Jane made sure to place that page behind all the others and secured the envelope between other files in her satchel. Her hand brushed against the thick file on the Stover triple murder. She drew the huge folder from the briefcase and scattered the pages across the bedspread. The front page of the Denver Post that featured her and Chris’ photos was set to the side along with the other news stories on the case. Photos of the burned out Range Rover and the charred bodies of the victims were placed into another pile. Intermingled between the two piles were sundry stacks of crime scene notes and obituaries from the Rocky Mountain News. She unfolded the newspaper and
skimmed the obituary: “William ‘Bill’ Stover, 42 . . . Yvonne Kelley Stover, 41 . . . Amy Joan Stover, 10 were killed . . . tragedy . . . great potential . . . police looking into motives.” Jane tossed the newspaper to the side and took a deep drag on her cigarette.
She pulled out two stapled pages of typed information on the elusive Texas mob. The Texas mob. It always came back to them and it always ended there. Jane thought back to her father’s comment of “follow the protection money.” The Texas mob’s side ventures of offering “protection” to foreign businesses against drug entanglements in exchange for a slice of the store’s profit was textbook. It was that protection money that could steer Jane to a viable suspect in the case. It could turn out to be some lackey for the mob or it could hopefully turn out to be a heavy hitter.
The more Jane pondered the possibilities, the more she concluded that it had to involve more than one individual. The Stover house was on 24-hour guard. Except for the time when Stover stupidly took his family for ice cream and was accompanied by two patrol cars along the way, there was a fortress of protection around his house. The precise timing it took for the individual to come out of the shadows and plant the crude, C-4 bomb in the driveway—right in sight of Jane and Chris in their parked car—and then disappear into the night was nothing short of amazing.
“Fucking ice cream,” she mumbled under her breath. It was so typical of a druggie when he started “tweaking.” They always craved sugar and would do whatever it took to get their dose of the sweet stuff. “Screw the rules,” Jane could almost hear Stover saying to the cops as they tried to dissuade him from leaving the house. But Stover had been house-bound and in a forced state of detox for more than two weeks. It was insane to expect him to maintain any sense of mental stability. Jane knew that meth detox could take anywhere from three to six months. After just two weeks off the drug, Stover was most likely hearing voices and hallucinating, two common side effects of withdrawal. He was busting at the seams and would have probably offered to cut off his daughter’s big toe for a chance to get out of the house and taste sugar. Jane surmised he was still licking that ice cream cone when he drove his SUV into his driveway and tripped the wires that led to the C-4 explosive.
