UNEASY PREY

by Annette Dashofy

  “What then?”

  Zoe looked at Patsy. Her friend. Her cousin. Her biggest helper with the work here at the barn. Of all the boarders, Patsy would be the hardest to tell. Zoe looked down at her Muck boots. “They’ve sold the farm.”

  Silence greeted the statement. Zoe lifted her gaze. Patsy stood motionless, her lips parted in a small oval, as if the word “Oh” was stuck. Only the condensation hanging in front of her face offered evidence she hadn’t stopped breathing.

  Zoe told her the rest.

  “Two weeks?” Patsy’s voice was a squeak.

  “Yeah.”

  She shuffled over to the gate and joined Zoe leaning on it. “What are we gonna do?”

  “First, I have to figure out how to tell everyone. I want to be the one to break the news. I don’t want some hearing it from me and others hearing it through the grapevine.”

  Long moments passed with the only sounds being the munch of hay and a snort when one of the horses got dust up its nose. Then Patsy turned to face her. “Email.”

  Zoe looked at her cousin. “Huh?”

  “Send a group email. Some might not read it right away, but that’s your best chance to get the word out to everyone at once.”

  “I was gonna call everyone.”

  “You can do that, but the ones you call first will freak and call their friends before you can get to them.”

  “True.” Zoe rolled the options around in her head for the umpteenth time. “I’ll do both. I’ll email first and follow up with calls.”

  “Good. Now what do we do? Where are you gonna keep Windstar?”

  “I have no idea.” She’d faced the possibility of needing to move her gelding a couple of times in the last year and hadn’t come up with any options then either. This time, it was really happening. “Any thoughts about where you’ll board Jazzel?”

  Patsy turned, crossed her arms, and leaned back against the gate. “Actually, yes.”

  “Where?” Maybe they could continue being stable buddies.

  Patsy gazed across the arena, a thoughtful smile tugging at her lips. “I think Kimberly might be able to help.”

  While County handled the bulk of the evidence, Pete maintained the capability to process fingerprints at the Vance Township station. As soon as he returned from the Andrews house, he headed to the small lab in the rear of the building. Donning latex gloves, he removed Trout’s key from the evidence bag, broke out the powder and his favorite brush, and soon lifted two reasonably good prints. Thumb and index finger. He didn’t bother entering them into the computer. Instead, he pulled up the unidentified set from the crime scene and held the two print cards up for comparison.

  Pete had been considered skilled at fingerprint identification back in his days with the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police, but a rank amateur could have made this match.

  Their fourth person at the house was Mr. Troutman.

  With another mystery solved, Pete returned to his office and his computer and pulled up the photos he and the county crime-scene unit had taken at Oriole’s house the previous couple of days.

  The bells on the front door jangled. A moment later, Baronick sauntered in with a paper bag reeking of onions and meat in his hand and claimed the seat across from Pete.

  “I only called you fifteen minutes ago.” Pete sniffed, and his stomach growled. “And I didn’t expect you to drive back out here.”

  The detective opened the bag and pulled out a huge sandwich. “I was just over in Mt. Prospect Township checking on another case.” He took a bite. “Hope you don’t mind,” he mumbled around the mouthful. “I stopped at that new deli up the road. I missed lunch.”

  “You could’ve brought two, you know.”

  Baronick held out the sandwich with the bite taken from it. “You can have mine.” He grinned.

  “No, thanks.” Pete clicked through the photos on his computer until he located the ones he wanted.

  The detective chewed and swallowed. “What’d you find?”

  Without looking up from the screen, Pete updated Baronick on his encounter with Trout, the key, and the fingerprints.

  “So our four sets of prints all match people known to have frequented Oriole Andrews’ house.” Baronick wiped his mouth with a paper napkin from the deli bag. “Looks like our intruders wore gloves after all. And we’re back to square one.”

  “Maybe.” Pete thumbed through the photos he’d taken earlier today on his phone. “Or maybe square one and a half.”

  Baronick scowled. “What do you mean?”

  “Take a look.”

  The detective deposited the remains of his sandwich on top of the bag on the desk and moved around to gaze over Pete’s shoulder at three photos.

  “This…” Pete used a pen to tap on the computer screen. “…is a shot of Oriole’s bedroom dresser before the crime-scene techs had touched anything.” He pointed to the second photo. “This one was taken after they were done.” He held up his phone. “And I shot this one this morning after escorting Mr. Troutman out of the house.”

  Baronick squinted at the photos. “Zoom in on that last one.”

  Pete smiled. The detective knew where he was going with this. He expanded the phone’s screen and repositioned the photo.

  Baronick straightened. “Mrs. Andrews kept her dresser drawers nice and neat. The crime-scene guys, not so much.”

  Pete swiveled in his chair to look up at the detective. “They left every single drawer misaligned. I checked. That dresser is an antique. No fancy slides on the drawers. You have to jiggle them a little to get them to shut properly.”

  “My grandparents have furniture like that. I can never get the drawers closed. But my grandmother gets it every time, first try. She knows how to do it.”

  “From years of practice. The crime-scene guys weren’t going to take the time to put everything back just so.” Pete held up his phone again, showing the picture of the top drawers closed flush with the dresser front and the bottom two out of kilter.

  Baronick shrugged. “The granddaughter probably straightened things up.”

  “No. I asked. She took what she needed in the way of funeral clothes for Oriole, but she said she wasn’t going to worry about the rest of it for a while.”

  The detective met Pete’s gaze. “Troutman.”

  “He was upstairs when I got there.” Pete clicked back a few photos on the computer to the before shots. “I heard a thud and thought he’d knocked over the table beside the bed, but the photos show it was like that before the crime-scene guys started. Trout was going through the drawers.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s a very good question.” And one Pete intended to ask the old man.

  Pete’s cell phone rang. The photo of Oriole’s dresser was replaced with a photo of Nadine. “I have to take this,” he told Baronick and slipped past him into the hall. “Hey, sis.”

  “Golden Oaks called. They’ll be ready for Dad to move in tomorrow morning.”

  Pete rolled her words around in his head. Not a question. A statement. And Nadine was never one to ask his permission. Yet responding with “and why are you telling me this?” seemed inappropriate. Instead, he said, “Okay.”

  The line was silent, but he knew she hadn’t hung up. Apparently his reply wasn’t the right one.

  “Isn’t it?” he asked.

  “I want you to help.” She didn’t tack on “you moron,” but from her snippy tone, it was implied.

  “I’m on duty.”

  “You’re the chief of police. Order one of your officers to fill in for you for a couple hours.”

  They’d had this conversation before. It never ended well. “I can’t just—”

  “He’s your father too. I can’t handle this alone.”

  “Can’t you wait until tomorrow evening?”

  The h
eat that blew through the cell signal scorched his ear. “First, have you not heard the weather report?”

  “Uh. No.”

  “You should pay attention to these things. They’re calling for an Alberta clipper coming through beginning early afternoon tomorrow. And second, their office staff leaves at four, and they need to be there for the paperwork. So no, we can’t wait until evening.”

  He could’ve argued the value of his being in his office versus Golden Oaks’ office staff, but he knew he’d lose. Nor could he disavow the hazards of having Pop out in a January storm. “What time?”

  “I was thinking if you came here tonight and filled up your SUV with Dad’s stuff, I could get him in the car and drive him there tomorrow. You can just meet us at the facility at…say…nine o’clock?”

  “Any chance you can make it eight?”

  “Nine would be better.”

  Of course it would.

  “But whatever time you can come tonight is fine.”

  Nancy appeared in the hallway at the front of the station. “Chief, you have a 911.”

  “I have to go,” he told his sister.

  “Wait,” she said. “When do you think you’ll get here?”

  Nancy planted an impatient hand on her hip. “Incident at the high school.”

  “I’ll call you,” Pete said to Nadine and hung up, although he could still hear her yammering on the other end. He pocketed the phone and looked at Nancy. “Did they specify what kind of incident?”

  “An altercation.” She held up the call slip. “And they gave me the name of one of the kids involved. Marcus Baker.”

  “On my way.” Pete poked his head into his office where Baronick sat at the computer, eating his sandwich. “You might want to come along for this.”

  By the time Pete and Baronick arrived at the high school and were directed to the gymnasium, the altercation had been broken up. One of the coaches stood over a teen slouched on the lowest bleacher seat, nursing a bloody lip and what looked like the start of a nice shiner. Another coach had Marcus, arms folded, backed against a wall. Two fighters sent to their respective corners. In between, the principal had one hand planted on her hip and rubbed her temple with the other.

  When she spotted Pete, she strode toward him. “Chief Adams, thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Before the principal could answer, the boy with the bloody lip leapt to his feet, pointing at Marcus. “He’s nuts. I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ and he jumped me. Hid under the bleachers and blindsided me.”

  The principal faced the boy, both fists on her hips this time. “Robert, be quiet. You’ll have your chance to tell your story.”

  “It ain’t a story. It’s the truth.” Pouting, the boy flopped back down.

  “Isn’t,” the principal corrected him under her breath, probably knowing he didn’t hear her. Or care. She turned back to Pete. “And I suspect it is the truth,” she said, still too low for anyone but Pete to hear. Then she raised her voice to a normal volume. “We found these two going at it in here. Marcus was on top, punching Robert, who didn’t fight back. At least not by the time we arrived.” She again lowered her voice. “I’m not saying who started it, but Marcus would have finished it if the coach hadn’t pulled him off.”

  “I understand.” Pete turned to Baronick, who lurked behind him. “Why don’t you take Robert aside and get his story. Excuse me. His ‘truth.’ I’ll speak with young Mr. Baker.”

  Baronick cast a scowl at Pete, but nodded and headed toward the bleachers. “You.” The detective pointed at Robert and then at the far end of the gym. “This way.”

  Once they were out of earshot, Pete stepped over to Marcus. “Would you give us a minute?” Pete asked the coach, who shot one more menacing look at the kid and moved away to engage the principal in conversation.

  Marcus kept his arms crossed and his head lowered, avoiding Pete’s gaze.

  Pete hooked his thumbs in his duty belt and straightened to his full height, looming over the kid. “Here we are again.”

  No reply.

  “Do you want to tell me your side?”

  Marcus’ eye twitched, but he didn’t speak.

  “This is—what? Your third fight in the last two months?”

  One shoulder shrugged.

  “So what’s up? I thought we had an agreement. I didn’t bust you for taking a baseball bat to that mailbox, and in return, you were going to stay out of trouble.”

  “I wasn’t the one bashing those mailboxes.”

  “Ah. He speaks.”

  Marcus hunched his shoulders. A turtle trying to draw his head into his shell. “Well, I wasn’t.”

  “Maybe not, but you were in the car with the older kids who were bashing them.”

  Marcus grunted.

  “Destroying mailboxes is a federal offense.”

  “I know.”

  “Three years in prison. Two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar fine. You got a quarter mil sitting around somewhere?”

  Marcus finally met Pete’s gaze, but his expression clearly indicated he thought Pete was an idiot. “I’m only thirteen. They wouldn’t charge me as an adult.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Pete was bluffing, but Marcus was buying it. Worry creased his brow.

  “Talk to me,” Pete said. “Tell me why you’ve gone from busting mailboxes to busting heads.”

  Marcus did his best to look disinterested. “’Cause I felt like it, I guess.”

  “You guess.” Pete shook his head. “Marcus…” He moved closer to the boy, intentionally invading his space. “…isn’t your mom dealing with enough right now? Do you think you going to juvie is going to be helpful to her?”

  Pete’s words must have hit a nerve. For a fleeting moment, Marcus’ expression softened.

  “Did you jump that boy the way he said?”

  Marcus glared in Robert’s direction. “He had it coming.”

  “Why? What’d he do?”

  The kid seemed to consider the question, but shook his head. “That’s between him and me.”

  “You really want me to haul your ass to jail?”

  “You do what you gotta do, man.” Marcus lifted his chin, staring Pete in the eye. “And I’ll do what I have to do.”

  Pete held the boy’s gaze, waiting for it to waver. To his surprise, it didn’t. The kid had cajones. But more than that, the resolve and underlying anger in Marcus’ eyes made Pete think there was more going on here than a simple brawl between two testosterone-driven teens with anger-management issues.

  NINE

  Zoe sat alone in the ambulance service’s office, her laptop set up on the desk where she’d cleared a workspace. She stared at the screen and the email she’d composed—and re-composed at least five times—to her boarders. One version sounded heartless and devastating. Another sounded too Pollyannaish. If she’d been typing on paper, the trashcan would be overflowing.

  The police scanner on the shelf above the desk squawked a few routine calls between the static. A minor traffic collision on the other side of the county with no injuries. A Phillipsburg officer radioed in, stating the security alert at a local business was a false alarm.

  “You still working on that letter?” Earl asked from the doorway leading to the kitchen, the bunkroom, and the crew lounge in the rear of the building.

  “I don’t know what to tell them. Most of these folks have had their horses at my barn—” She realized what she’d said and winced. “The Krolls’ barn,” she corrected, “as long or longer than I have. I have no idea what they’re gonna do now.”

  Earl dragged a chair next to the desk and straddled it. “That’s not your concern, you know.”

  Zoe looked at him, surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “I realize you want to hel
p everyone, but it’s not up to you. You’re the barn manager, not a horse-placement agency. It’s your job to inform them of the situation. Nothing more.”

  He was right. She rocked back in the ancient office chair and swiveled it to face him. “But I do have to find a place for Windstar. I figure if I can help relocate some of the others, I might find a new home for my own horse.”

  Earl picked up a pen and pointed it at her. “Now that is your concern. Any ideas?”

  “No.” She grinned, remembering a conversation they’d had last summer about his young daughter wanting a pony. “Unless Lilly still wants to keep Windstar in her bedroom.”

  Earl chuckled. “Olivia put her foot down on that one.”

  “Your wife’s a spoilsport.”

  “No comment.”

  Zoe laughed. But a moment’s joviality didn’t wipe away the problem. Where was she going to stable her horse?

  Patsy had mentioned Kimberly, but refused to elaborate, insisting Zoe needed to speak with her mother. What the heck was that all about? The only conclusion Zoe could reach was that Patsy had decided to move to Florida. Kimberly had opened her home and her heart to Patsy as if she were her daughter instead of Zoe. As a result, Patsy had racked up quite a few frequent flyer miles, traveling south to visit Zoe’s mother and stepdad.

  It made sense. Patsy loved the south. She had no other family, except for a crazy old uncle in prison. That had to be it.

  Zoe had already lost her best friend to New Mexico. Now she was losing her second-closest friend—her cousin—to Florida.

  Before she could sink deeper into a quagmire of self-pity, the tones went off. She grabbed a pen and closed the laptop.

  “Traffic accident with injuries,” the dispatcher from the county emergency operations center reported. “Intersection of Main and Veterans in Dillard.”

  Earl grabbed his coat from the rack by the door. “We’re up.”

  Crew Chief Tony DeLuca charged into the office to take over at the desk. Zoe closed her computer, shoved it out of the way, and snatched her jacket before following her partner into the ambulance bay.

  The trip to Dillard only took three minutes, but a fire truck and one of the Vance Township Police cruisers had beaten them there. Not surprising, since the intersection in question was only a block from the fire station and two from the police department.