Murder of the Prodigal Father

by Mark Wm Smith

  The wall switch spilled yellow light onto the porcelain. Logic told me speed trumped stealth. Going through the cabinet in the dark meant pocketing any and all suspicious containers. Wasted effort designed to get me caught. When I left, I didn’t want Granger knowing I’d been here.

  The first bottle I saw was a plastic sepia container half filled with horse pills. “Medioblahblahisopene,” I read. Sounded scary. I put a single pill in my jacket. Two other containers yielded more prescription booty. As an afterthought, I checked my pockets for holes and found them secure.

  My search of the house concluded with a quick round of rifling the pantry and rummaging under the kitchen sink. Nothing unusual there. I didn’t think Granger would use drain cleaner, and I didn’t want to carry it out. All of the stuff you’d normally find in a garage would be in Granger’s shop. I decided to leave that for last. The barn came next.

  My watch said I had twelve minutes. “Damn.”

  Crossing the yard with snow blowing down my neck, it occurred to me that I was leaving tracks all over the snow-covered ground. Too late now. I prayed for more wind to cover my trail in the short minutes before Granger arrived. I jogged the last fifty yards.

  The toasted odor of alfalfa hay greeted me beyond the sliding door. A horse stomped and snorted, surprising me.

  I went to its stall.

  “Hey, buddy.” I laid my hand against the soft brush of nose that sought my palm.

  Heavy lips nibbled at me, hungry.

  In the dim but growing light from the half opened door, I could make out a bucket of caked feed. I bent and grabbed a handful. “You need a snack, friend?”

  The sorrel, a mare I guessed by the gentle demand, chomped at my gift, quickly finishing it.

  Patting her kindly face, I left her to seek my own prize. Easing across the barn floor and inhaling this vivid space gave me a longing for the peace it promised.

  Only a completely citified ogre could wander around the perimeter of a country animal shelter without yearning for simpler times. A working barn always brought to my mind the Declaration of Independence. Imagining those stolid men facing death rather than give up the pastoral freedom they’d found stirred my patriotism. Made me want to fight a war against oppressors. Like Granger. Too bad he was family.

  In the northeast corner I found it.

  Tucked behind a pile of ancient tack sat a gallon jug of insecticide. Pulling it out, I read the fading label: Dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane, C14H9Cl5, DDT, keep out of reach of children. The large imprint of skull and crossbones made the point.

  “Bingo!” I said to the horse. This had to be it. Zachary Polson had told me about getting sick after spilling something like this from behind the shop. As I read over the label, the idea of Granger applying it to Dixon’s naked body crept up on me. My stomach got queasy and the top of my head started tingling. “This is crazy,” I said.

  “Damn straight it’s crazy!” a voice announced from the door.

  I jumped and dropped the bottle.

  The murky silhouette of Uncle Granger stood between me and the exit. He held a rifle across his midsection.

  My chest swelled with a mixture of fear and anger. Blood pulsed in my ears.

  “What are you doing in my barn?” His voice rasped with anger.

  I pointed at my feet. “This is the stuff that killed my dad! Right here on your place!” I thought the bluff might keep him off balance. “What happened Granger? How did you let yourself go so far?”

  Granger took a couple of steps inside, moving the gun so it pointed at my feet. “What the hell are you rambling about, boy?”

  “This DDT stuff. My dad was poisoned with it.” I chanced a step forward. “You’ve got a jug right here.”

  “Why would I do that?” Now he sounded incredulous.

  “I’ve seen you and Mother. Trying not to touch in mixed company. Sneaking around like children.”

  Though I couldn’t see his face, something about the shift in weight and the shape of him made me think he was blushing with rage.

  He lifted the rifle barrel and jacked a round into the chamber. “I ought to shoot you right where you stand,” he said. And then he pulled the trigger.

  Electric heat splashed against my naked brainstem. My shoulders bunched as I squatted against the explosion. Splintered wood showered into the neck of my shirt.

  The horse reared up, whinnying.

  “What— the fa—? Are you crazy? Don’t you think the police are going to figure this out?” I hated the stammer in my voice. He’d notice and shoot me for it. Like an angry dog eats fear.

  “The police around here aren’t particularly bright near as I can tell.” He ratcheted another bullet into the chamber, the empty casing from the first flying toward the horse stall.

  It pinged dully against the oak gate, backing the mare deeper into her cell. She gave a long sputtering snort.

  I stood still.

  “I care about your mother.” A long pause went by.

  I tried to see more of Granger’s eyes.

  “She cares about you, Connor. You better leave before I decide that don’t matter.” He waved the rifle barrel.

  I scooted around it, leaving the rest of my brilliant words for another time. Granger had gone crazier than I’d guessed.

  It took a great deal of effort to keep my steps even as I made crunches in the frozen gravel toward Mother’s car. Each noisy step anticipated a searing projectile into my back. I let the tiny, ice bullets stabbed into my feet by God Almighty keep me focused on a steady march. To show fear was to die.

  Inside the car, I eased it out of the drive slowly. No sudden moves until I hit the pavement. When I heard the chirp of the tires on the asphalt, I cringed.

  It seemed every time I left the family farm anymore, I was in a big hurry.

  Typical of Montana weather, the snow blizzard disappeared on the way back to town.

  My blood pressure stayed high and the lightheaded result nearly caused me to trip going down the stairs to find Tony. The dispatcher called him out.

  I crossed my arms and tapped my toe.

  He met me outside the security door with a whisper.

  “Granger Pierce called about your visit this morning.”

  I gawked.

  “He’s filing a complaint. Wants you arrested.”

  “You’re arresting me? He killed my father!”

  Tony shook his head vigorously. “I’m not arresting you. But you’ve got to back off on snooping.”

  “He threatened me with his rifle! He shot at me!”

  Tony’s jaw pulsed.

  His disappointment angered me more. I was doing their job, getting shot at in the process, and he was pissed at me. How backwards could this get?

  “You were trespassing on his property, Connor,” he said in a strained tone.

  “I—”

  “Pierce!” Chief Frieze pushed the door open.

  I hadn’t seen him come up the hallway.

  “Step in here.”

  Tony shrugged despairingly.

  I followed Frieze. He stopped in the hallway.

  “You say Granger Pierce killed your father?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You have any proof?”

  I pulled the pills out of my pocket. “I found these in his medicine cabinet.”

  Frieze held out his palm.

  I poured the three pills in. “And he has some DDT in his barn.”

  Frieze lifted his head from staring at the pills. A dull resignation glazed his eyes. “DDT? And these two pills you took from his medicine cabinet? That’s your proof?”

  I gave a limp nod.

  Frieze inhaled slowly. “Pierce. We have some protocols in the legal system.” He spoke slowly. “These pills? Illegally obtained. Won’t stand in court. Even if,” he drew this tiny word out into its own sentence. “Even if we thought that Dixon Pierce might possibly have been murdered, which, as you know, we do not believe, investigating the possi
bility that your uncle or somebody else may have been involved does not include trespassing and pissing them off!” Frieze’s voice had gained speed and volume until the last three words became one, violent rebuke.

  I opened my mouth, trying to pull a defense out of the confusing flow of events that had led me to this troubling moment.

  Frieze raised his finger to my face. “If you would like to spend some time in my jail, persist in your abusive attempts to find evidence,” he dropped the pills on the floor, “against the citizens of this county.”

  My jaw dropped farther.

  Frieze tipped his head and raised his eyebrows. “I’m being kind because you’ve suffered a loss. Don’t push. Now beat it, and leave the police work to your friend.” He nodded toward Tony, who’d been looking at the floor behind me.

  I pushed past Tony to get out of the stifling, small town legal system. My face burned. I felt wetness in the corners of my eyes. Frieze had stripped me down expertly. And I didn’t have a counter move.

  Up the steps and outside, into a flash of cold air and light, I sensed Tony behind me. I stopped and took in a deep breath, feeling the bite, smelling the mixture of exhaust and prairie winter. From now on, I keep my emotions under control. I only had one ally in this, and I couldn’t bear calling Mother or Nansi to tell them I was in jail. I faced my friend.

  “Well,” I said.

  Tony nodded and turned his eyes to the ground.

  “You’re not on my side, are you?” I asked.

  “You make it difficult,” Tony replied.

  We sat in the 600 Café once again. Metal utensils rattled like chains in the back. Remnants of bacon grease and eggs filled the air, interrupted by the welcome scent of fresh coffee.

  I sipped mine, considering Tony’s accusation.

  “I believe in you, Connor.” He paused, tapping the side of his cup. “But even a smart guy can be hoodwinked by emotional pressure.”

  “Hoodwinked?” I snorted at him. “You think I’m making this whole murder idea up out of guilt?” My own lack of conviction made the words sound deflated.

  “What if you did?”

  “If I did?”

  “This wild idea that Dixon was murdered. What happens if it isn’t true?”

  My forehead tensed watching his face to see if he believed what he was saying. “You think I haven’t thought about this? That I need some insane focus to ease the pain of my loss?” My face was hot. “We grew up together, Tony.”

  His gaze dropped to his cup.

  “I bloodied my knuckles for you.”

  “Yeah. I get it. I don’t want it to be this way.”

  “Change it.” I took a deep drink. The coffee was too hot. My face contorted at the scalding.

  “I’ll do whatever you want, Connor. Just don’t get all blubbered up.” His expression softened, and the concern in his eyes might have made me cry.

  I opened my mouth wide to let some cool air in. “Damn, that stuff is hot.”

  Tony chuckled. Then he laughed outright.

  “What is wrong with you?” I asked, trying not to give into his mirth.

  He waved feebly, bending into the table. Some gasps escaped him, but I couldn’t tell if they were words.

  My lips curved into a smile. I could feel my cheeks pulling the chuckle out of me. Biting my teeth together only served to accelerate the process. I laughed out loud. “I don’t see what is so damned funny,” I tried to say, but now I’d slipped into Tony’s waves of guffaw. From the watering corner of my eye I noticed our friendly waitress staring. Soon she smiled. And then she disappeared into my pinched-eye struggles for breath.

  We honked and howled for nearly five minutes.

  My gut muscles quivered painfully as I slowed to rasping gulps for air.

  Tony’s face twisted with mild agony at his own efforts to end it. “Stop,” he finally eked out.

  “You started it.” I had finally reached equilibrium.

  “It’s hot,” he mimicked, nearly sending himself back into hysterics.

  It was so much like high school, I immediately recalled Jasia. Tony sitting across from her. And me beside her, here in the 600, our laughter reviving us after a grueling day of academics and sports.

  “We had it so tough back then,” I lamented breathlessly.

  Tony’s breathing approached normal.

  “Yeah,” he said. “We were living large, as my commander used to say.” Tony’s smile slipped toward dark memories. Shadowy madness danced behind his eyes.

  “Didn’t mean to drag you into the past,” I said.

  He shook his head, still staring into his cup.

  I took a more careful drink.

  “I better get back to work.” Tony looked deeply into me. “I want to help you, buddy, I do.” He held out his hand, palm up. “You have to give us something heavy to hold before we can back up and take another trail. Not that its right. We just waded across that creek already.”

  “I’m sorry about the trouble, Tony.”

  “Don’t sweat that. Just keep safe.” He turned his hand, offering it to me.

  I clasped it, feeling his strength.

  “See you soon,” he said, sliding out of the booth and away.

  The door tinkled. A swift, cold draft kicked me.

  My mind returned to Jasia. I brushed her aside, knowing my weakness, and hoping to avoid it. Suddenly it dawned on me that her position in the community might prove useful. It lit my brain like a cartoon light bulb. Of course! In her catering business, she met everybody worth meeting. If something was worth gossip, Jasia would know it.

  I shook my head, stunned by the clarity of it and disappointed that I hadn’t considered this before. Downing the last of my coffee, I grabbed my coat and headed out to try and find her. Hopefully, she’d be at home preparing for a job.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Everybody Has A Secret

  I found Jasia in her kitchen.

  Nicole, Jasia’s grumpy part-time assistant, opened the door. “She’s busy right now.”

  “It’ll only take a minute.” What was up with this girl?

  “I’ll tell her you’re here.” She shut the door in my face.

  I stood outside for five frozen minutes. Patsy Cline’s words started dancing in my head while I stomped my feet for warmth. You want me to act like we’ve never kissed. You want me to forget. Thankfully, Nicole appeared and led me into the cozy bakery.

  “Hey,” I said.

  Jasia was bending over a cake.

  I guessed the culinary island that held her prize to be about the size of my mother’s. And twice as full of gadgetry.

  “Hey,” Jasia echoed, glancing up with a quick smile.

  Nicole watched cautiously, with one eye pointed in our direction, from her work at the opposite edge of the room.

  “Birthday,” Jasia explained, not waiting for my question. “Twins. Both names must fit on the cake.” Her hand steadily followed the curve of what was quickly becoming a masterpiece.

  “One over the top of the other,” I said, offering my brand of expertise. “They’ll fit.”

  Jasia’s hand or the motion of it did not waver. “Always the helpful one,” she said in a crisp tone.

  Nicole smiled, and then quickly suppressed it.

  “Sorry.” I found a clean area of the counter that ran the perimeter of the room, and leaned against the edge. “I actually came by for information.”

  By now Jasia had finished the trim. She looked up, her sensuous eyes pulling me right in, wisps of her dark hair escaping the scarf she’d tied to hold it back. Her smile felt a bit devious. “You figured out who holds the master key to the city?”

  “It took me awhile, but I guess it finally soaked in.”

  “I’m glad.” She didn’t explain, only tucked a thread of bangs under the bright pink bandana with her pinky. She bent over the cake once more, moving so her back was to me. She began squeezing a new tube of frosting into the center of her artwork.

 
I gaped, recalling those youthful spooning sessions in my pup tent. I remembered Nicole, and looked over.

  She faced away from us, working on something unseen.

  I decided to focus on what I could see of the cake. This effort kept the curve of her buttocks in my peripheral vision. I ignored the realization. “Granger is spending a lot of time at my house,” I blurted. Something transitional would have been more comfortable, but I didn’t have it in me.

  “Your uncle?” Jasia asked.

  “Yeah. Uncle Granger. Dad’s brother. He’s almost moved in.”

  “Heard you went to visit him this morning.”

  My jaw dropped.

  Nicole turned her head to listen.

  I could see just enough of Jasia’s face to note her smile. “News travels like lightening around here.”

  This time Jasia actually stopped drawing and straightened. Her wide grin taunted me just a little. “I’m making this cake for the sheriff’s children. I had to talk to his wife this morning to finalize details. Your adventure came up.”

  “The crazy bastard tried to shoot me.”

  “He gets upset over small things. I don’t think he would have actually shot you.” She bent into her cake again. “He hasn’t shot anybody yet.”

  “I don’t like the idea of being first.”

  Nicole realized she was gawking and quickly turned back to her own task.

  “I always thought you were kind of competitive,” Jasia said. “Didn’t that used to be a point of concern with us?” She’d moved and a veil of pink scarf obscured her face.

  Not sure of her implication, I stayed on Granger. “He has some DDT in his barn, as well.”

  Jasia froze, cursed under her breath at the imperfection the sudden stop had caused, and then turned to look at me. “DDT? In his barn? You lost me.”

  “I think someone poisoned Dixon,” I said. “Doc Marcus suggested he had unusual symptoms before he died. It seems—”