by Leigh Hearon
It was the opening Annie had been waiting for.
“Maybe I can help.”
Esther looked at her askance.
“Annie, I know you’re involved in this case and all, but what do you think you could possibly do?”
“Maybe more than a man could. Or a computer.”
Twenty minutes later, Annie emerged from the county building with a small bundle tucked into her inside jacket pocket. She was thankful that the Sheriff’s Office didn’t have the money to install metal detectors, because even though the package she carried wouldn’t technically set off any alarms, she wasn’t sure she could have passed the security guard without signs of guilt clearly evident on her face.
Once inside her truck, she patted her pocket just to make sure it had arrived intact from the twenty-foot walk to her truck. Yup, it was still there: a digital copy of Marcus’s phone call to Hilda, the one in which he threatened to kill her. It also contained all the other phone messages, including her own and those from disgruntled vendors, but Annie wasn’t interested in them. She’d never understood how Marcus could have uttered those words—they were so unlike the man she knew. Had known. Knew. She was determined to listen to them again and again until they made sense, or at least made sense to the case.
* * *
All guilt was replaced with mild euphoria five miles out of town. Her success in snaring the tape had bolstered her confidence, and the wariness she had felt that morning about independently contacting Travis Latham had dissipated along with the rain clouds that had threatened to spill this morning. But first, she had a stop to make. Latham’s property was only a mile or two from Hilda’s compound, a fact that had struck Dan as highly significant when she’d turned over the Colbert/Latham correspondence to him. But so was Johan Thompson’s farm. And it was more than time that she looked in on her Rambouillets. They weren’t ready to lamb, she knew—she’d have heard from Johann in a jiffy if that were the case—but they couldn’t be far off from motherhood.
She pulled into the Thompson farm a little after noon. She half expected to find Johan and his wife, Hester, in the farmhouse for a midday meal, but she espied the craggy old farmer tending to his vintage International Harvester tractor. It was parked by his toolshed, a sagging wood building that looked like a junkman’s cave to the rest of civilization but, Annie knew, contained a nut, bolt, wire, and engine part to fit any farm machine made since 1946 and could solve any mechanical emergency. At least twice a year, Annie listened to Hester Thompson threaten to haul the whole place to the dump, but Johan simply smiled on each occasion and Hester would never dare follow through. She’d told Annie she knew darn well where her canning jars disappeared to; she’d found every last one of the them in Johan’s shed, serving as new homes for wayward machine parts.
“And he might as well keep them,” she’d told Annie. “I wouldn’t put so much as a cherry in one of those things now, not after all that grease and grime.”
A rough wool blanket was spread on the ground, and all Annie could see were steel-toed boots and oil-spotted overalls, but she would have recognized the farmer anywhere. She knew his curses.
“Dad burn machine! I plugged you up a month ago. Where in tarnation are you hiding that leak?”
Johan spoke to all his machines that way. In fact, Annie suspected, he talked more to his farm equipment than he did to his wife.
“Johan! It’s Annie. I came to check on my sheep.”
She spoke loudly and from across the lawn in front of the farmhouse to give him plenty of warning. The last thing she wanted was to quietly walk up and watch Johan clunk his head on the tractor chassis in surprise. Annie figured it would hurt as much as having your head connect with that of a horse. This, she knew from experience, was painful.
Johan’s rant against the offending tractor abruptly stopped. He scooted out from under the tractor with surprising agility and scrambled to his feet, thrusting a greasy hand toward her.
“Well, how-do, Miss Annie. I expected to see you long before this. Fact is, I was just about to call you.”
“Is everything okay? I know I should have come by two weeks ago.”
“Oh, everything’s right as rain, which we’ve been having a lot of lately, in case you hadn’t noticed. The girls are looking right plump although they’re still eating good, and no one’s hips have hollowed out. But you usually have them sheared before lambing time, and that can’t be far off.”
“No, I’m sure lambing season is right around the corner. I’ve just had an out-of-town visitor and a lot on my plate. But I’ll call Leif this afternoon and ask him to make my sheep a priority.”
“That’s what I was going to call you about. Leif stopped by yesterday and noticed the same thing. He said he could come out this Saturday if it suits your needs. He said you needn’t be here if you’re busy. Leif said his cousin’s staying with him for the moment and is acting as his unpaid assistant.”
Annie considered this. Leif was the volunteer fireman who’d blasted the fire engine siren on his way out of the accident scene on Highway 3 almost three weeks ago. He knew darn well what it had taken Annie to get the bay calmed down after that incident. If, by way of atonement, he wanted to spare her a day of herding and holding distraught ewes who didn’t have the good sense to realize haircuts would make them immeasurably more comfortable that summer, she wasn’t about to dissuade him.
“Great,” she told Johan. “I’ll plan on coming by midafternoon to see how he’s doing and to settle up, but it’ll be nice not to have to go home smelling of lanolin. I’ve got a lot of work to do on the birthing pens, anyway.”
“Need anything?” There was a gleam in Johan’s eye. Nothing pleased the man more than being asked to rummage through his eclectic collection of bolts to find the one missing piece that salvaged an otherwise useless farm tool.
Annie smiled. “I think all I’ll need is a hammer and a box of nails. But if I run out of cedar planks for the temporary gates, I’ll let you know.”
* * *
An hour later, Annie was on her way to Travis Latham’s, well fed from a lunch made and served by Hester.
Annie had gratefully accepted a doggy bag of stew for Wolf, who was waiting patiently by the truck, then bid her hosts adieu. As she watched her beloved Blue Heeler inhale his unexpected treat, she knew that he would be as hungry as ever for his dinner that night. Pulling out of the Thompsons’ driveway, she wondered lazily if she’d ever feel the need to eat again.
Annie had never been down the winding country road that led to the Latham spread. That wasn’t unusual; even lifelong county residents such as she found it impossible to know all the back roads with inconspicuous driveways that often led to a community that didn’t want to be found.
Travis Latham obviously wasn’t among the segment of society that wished to be anonymous for reasons best kept to themselves. A prominent and well-built sign on Chesapeake Road heralded the Latham name and pointed the direction to the man’s residence. Annie quickly realized the good sense in erecting the sign. Latham might not have wanted to shield his identity, but he sure didn’t want to live close to his neighbors; Annie had driven a good quarter mile, and still there was no house in sight.
Nor, apparently, did he want to interact with them. She uneasily noted that several prominent NO TRESPASSING signs adorned the fir trees flanking the drive. She hoped they only applied to religious fanatics and ex-mothers-in-law.
Annie clocked another quarter mile on her odometer before she saw the beginnings of a long circular driveway and the smoke from a woodstove circling the air above. She instinctively reached overhead to check the presence of her Winchester .30-.30, then absently patted Wolf, seated beside her.
“Don’t know what we’ll find, buddy,” she told her companion. “Let’s just take it one step at a time.” Wolf panted enthusiastically in response, his breath reeking of meat and onion.
Taking one step at a time was what the white-haired man she saw peering into the mailbox
outside a six-foot steel gate was apparently doing as well. His shoulders rested on two forearm crutches, making him seem shriveled and smaller than he actually was. She watched as he awkwardly transferred the mail into a shoulder bag hanging off one arm handle and shakily closed the mailbox flap. Annie was still twenty feet away, but she could see the fragility inherent in his actions. Her desire to help overrode her fear of reprisal from being on the property, and she slid out of the truck, Wolf in tow.
“Can I help you?” she shouted.
The old man slowly turned, waving a mail flyer in a motion that said, “No, I’m fine.” He shifted up on his crutches, which emphasized his rounding shoulders, and squinted toward her.
“Seems to me I ought to be asking you the same thing.” His voice was mild, and there was a hint of amusement in his words. He did not sound at all threatening. And how could he be? Wolf could have knocked him over in a single bound.
Annie gave the old man her most winning smile while giving Wolf a nonverbal command to sit.
“You’re absolutely right. I hope you don’t mind my intruding on you like this. My name’s Annie Carson. This is Wolf,” she said, gesturing to the Blue Heeler, who now was on the ground, his paws in front of him, the image of perfect submission. “I wanted to talk to you. Is now a good time?”
“It’s as good a time as any,” he said, using his crutches to transfer his weight from one foot to the other. “Although I’ve had more visitors today than I have all month. I’ll open up the gate so you can bring your rig inside. It’s hard to turn around if I don’t.”
Probably on purpose, Annie thought as she flashed him a grin and she and Wolf climbed back up into her truck. She watched the person she assumed was Travis Latham painfully unlock the gate and pull it to one side, then slowly nosed her truck inside the property.
It was magnificent. Latham had created a home that made Hilda Colbert’s house look like a bad knockoff of the Ewings’ TV home on Dallas. The three-story farmhouse was newly built, but it retained all the charm of the century-old structures Annie saw dotting the landscape in her own neighborhood, with all the meticulous care that they lacked. A gleaming white wraparound porch set off the hunter green exterior of the rest of the structure. Colorful flowerbeds, many with plants exotic for the Northwest, bordered the entire home, except for one side entrance that had a ramp leading to what was probably the kitchen door. But that was the only evidence that the home had been remodeled to fit the owner’s own limitations. There were eight long steps leading up to the front entrance, and the man slowly and laboriously mastered all of them without looking behind to see if Annie was in tow.
“You can bring your dog if you want.”
Annie was slowly and silently walking behind him. She knew better than to ask if he wanted help again.
“Thank you,” she said, meaning it, and whispered, “Heel” fiercely to Wolf as he started to bound toward the steps. She didn’t want anything to upset the old man.
Once inside the house, Annie again marveled at the grandeur in front of her. Thick lush rugs carpeted the front hall and a living room she could see on the right. Annie didn’t know good art from bad, but she suspected that what she was seeing now fell in the former category, judging by the frames and the individual lights perched over them, casting their glow on the images below. Old-fashioned lampshades adorning lamps with gleaming bases sat on mahogany tables. She could hear the solemn tick-tock of a grandfather clock somewhere in the distance.
“I used to have dogs,” the old man was telling her. “After my stroke, I couldn’t keep them anymore. Figured it wasn’t fair to them if I couldn’t walk them. You look like you’ve got a good boy.”
“He is,” Annie said, adding, “I really don’t know what I’d do without him.” Damn! That was a stupid thing to say. But the old man simply smiled ruefully and gestured toward the living room.
“Why don’t you make yourself at home? I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
Annie complied and sat gingerly on an overstuffed couch near a bay window. She ordered Wolf to sit, then waited primly, her hands on her lap, not daring to do more than glance at the big art book in front of her. She’d come to Latham’s home expecting to be intimidated, but not precisely in this manner.
After what seemed to be an interminable time, the man slowly entered the room, bringing a glass of water with him. He carefully put it down in front of Annie, then made his way to a high-backed chair a few feet away. It must be his chair, she thought, the one he can get in and out of it easily, unlike the rest of the overstuffed furniture in the room.
Slowly placing his crutches on the floor, the man sat back, giving Annie the first good look she’d had of his face. The lines on his neck showed his age, which must have hovered somewhere in the late seventies, and one side of his face drooped more than the other, no doubt the effect of the stroke he’d mentioned. But it was a noble face, surprisingly clear of wrinkles, and the gray eyes that looked out under white eyebrows were clear, direct, and surprisingly warm.
“There are coasters in that side drawer. If you wouldn’t mind.”
Annie leapt to fulfill his request, then obediently took a sip of water.
“Now, what can I do for you? I’ve just seen the back of Suwana County’s Finest, so I’m going to assume that you may be asking me the same sorts of questions.”
Dan had been here? So that’s why he’d been so abrupt with her earlier. If she’d never told him about Latham’s fight to get Hilda’s property, he wouldn’t have had to make the effort to investigate a lead he obviously thought was a dead end. Well, tough darts, she thought. Sheriffs are supposed to investigate. Although now, after actually seeing Travis Latham, she wondered how logical it was to think that he had anything to do with Hilda’s and Wayne Johnston’s deaths.
“You are Travis Latham, aren’t you?” she asked tentatively.
“Last time I looked at my birth certificate,” was his dry reply.
“I’m sorry to bother you like this, especially if Sheriff Stetson has already interrupted your day.”
“But not so sorry that you’re still here.” Again, the words were said lightly, without provocation, but Annie got the message. This was a man who preferred directness over diplomacy. In fact, if she’d stopped to think about it, that’s what was so apparent in his correspondence with Hilda. Annie immediately changed tactics.
“Point taken. So, Mr. Latham, let me try to explain why I wanted to see you.”
Mr. Latham leaned back in his chair and waited. Annie took a big breath.
“I don’t know if Dan—Sheriff Stetson—told you, but I’m the person who found Hilda Colbert’s body.”
If Annie was expecting to shock Latham, she didn’t succeed. His facial expression was as impassive as ever. Strange, she thought. Perhaps it was because of the stroke he’d mentioned. Or perhaps he just was impervious to hearing about homicides of people he knew.
“I’m also the person who discovered the letters between you and your real-estate agent to Hilda Colbert around the time when she purchased the property.”
“Ah. So I have you to thank for the visit from the Sheriff’s Office.”
“I’m afraid so. And obviously I’m not here in any official capacity. And if I’d known that Dan—I mean Sheriff Stetson—had already visited you, I wouldn’t have bothered you.”
“You mean you would have just badgered the good sheriff for information?”
Annie blushed. “Well, if Sheriff Stetson had told me talking to you didn’t help the investigation at all, I would have accepted that.”
“Would you?”
They were only two words, but with a slight emphasis on the first. They caught Annie by surprise, and she thought a moment before responding.
“No, probably not. That is, if, not if I could come to that same conclusion myself.”
“Ms. . . . Carson, is it? Ms. Carson, do you suspect me of killing Hilda Colbert?”
“No, not at all.”
“But you did before coming here.”
“I didn’t know. Honestly. I just read the correspondence between the two of you, and it was clear you and Hilda had come to loggerheads over the property. Also . . .” Annie fell silent. She wasn’t sure she wanted to tell Latham that what he’d written and what Marcus had said sounded awfully similar.
“Also . . . what else, Ms. Carson?”
“Nothing. The fact is, the Sheriff’s Office is pinning Hilda’s death on her ex-husband, and I’m just not convinced they’re right.”
“Where do I come in? I can tell you the same things I told the sheriff and his redoubtable deputy, Ms. Williams. I live alone. I no longer drive. My overly caring daughter-in-law comes over around six o’clock every night to deliver groceries and make sure I have everything I need for the day ahead. She leaves around eight, and I retire around ten. Aside from Melinda’s recollection, there’s no way to prove I’m telling the truth, but quite frankly, Ms. Carson, there are a lot of reasons that make it hard to put me at the scene of the crime.”
“I believe you, Mr. Latham. But that’s not really why I came,” Annie lied. “I’m really interested in getting your opinion on something else altogether.”
“Ask away. I hope your questions will be fractionally more interesting than those of the sheriff.”
She couldn’t stop a half laugh from emerging and to her surprise, Travis Latham gave a small chuckle himself.
“At this point in my life, I’m not too worried about going to jail. So if I’m being viewed as a possible suspect in a homicide, I’d rather have everything out in the open.”
“Okay. Well, to begin with, did you ever meet Hilda?”
“Never had the pleasure. Only heard about her from a few friends. It was enough to make me want to avoid her company if I could help it.”
